my moether'd never smoke in public but when i found her pack she was busted, and when she saw some missing she said, "well, i hope you enjoyed them." some smart people think sarcasm and ironic is smart. she was in england in 1944 to work on radar, whatever she did she never told me. "book-keeping". he was still rich, i mean, smelt it, looked it, and she had a keen sense of smell -- 'you've been drinking??' -- no mom, i'm just tired. it never went further. she knew my father. some 'tards like me also sarcase for the occasion.
which is why, on this spring day of 1959 i'm riding my bike to the beach and smoking a cigarette past the first dorms of UCSB. over there are the big kids in college and they're there. i mean, more alive than. which is why i dream of being in bed with one, instead of just on the bed jerking with steve v. opportunist. so, anyway, there's steve with some girls on the beach, he's surfer steve when he's not getting butt fucked. which is why i really don't think the beach is all that cool, cause it's just wet. not like a river in dry rocks and scruffle tree roots and that smell of willow and sage in dry water.
she kept the birth certificate in a shoe box.
i can imagine how it happened. but, i can't. he didn't drink, she did. maybe he wanted to feel what it was; maybe she seemed so artless she wouldn't remember. maybe steve didn't remember me. i'm maybe saying we're all whores: he, steve, her, me. but, whore is a profession and all my life i've been surrounded by amateurs the way wittgenstein's dick was surrounded by my mother. except that i can imagine, and that's my inheritance from the hapsburg empire -- the karl kraus, kick in the knee, slapping sound which goes so well with haydn, clinks so well with silver porcelain in the servant's fingers freshened from the inside surrounding of the kitchen maid. Kaiser und Konig and his friend W.
let's say he talked his way into my mother's charms, the way his father talked his way into empire -- sweet nothings and the hint of paper -- money, marriage, mortgage. it's kind of dumb. like a short sea wave slapping sand. in the library at UCSB there's a few of his books -- two. one. does he talk about me? written in 1918, 1930's -- he's sort of precocious, maybe psychic: i will have a trailer-trash dog son and he will disappoint everyone he meets because he doesn't want to fuck them for their money or cute tiddly-wink. people hate me, maybe it's the austrian in me, they hate little rabbits. why shouldn't i hate myself?
so, my mom says, "if someone asks you to do something like that..." and, here she drops some asshole sarcastic shit i'm supposed to say to mr. right of my dreams. "yes, mom." maybe they were both drunk. who'd want to fuck if it meant getting a little monster out of it, her; out of the moon in silesia.
he said, i said, "without aether, no speech; no light. in a jar void of anything, light would not shine. but, being void, there'd be no form and the bell jar would never form. two people talking is what talks."
4 Jul 17
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this is a simple thing. w. didn't like uncertainty, thought that anything thinkable was contained in what could be thought, thought in thinkable terms in thinkable space.
goethe liked the intangible, thought that the ephemeral was a mirror in which we could see our understanding objectively, as a thing in itself. w's logic is just such a thing too, a realistic ephemeral which was more like the reflection back of our light of truth. goethe, i think, seems to think the ephemeral is the evoked and a messenger.
so, in this, i'm me of course, because i can't know wittgenstein, yet i'm his bastard too, in the sense bastard's come to mean any spawn of some protean thinker. so, being w's clown, i'm miming out a way of thinking through a way of writing -- just as he does in the tractatis -- to allow the reader to see the structure of the thought being formed as the thought's formed. the structure is plastic and forms as the thought creates itself.
in the final paragraph of this flash fiction, i turn on w. and ask him where his thought comes from. as his son, he'd expect me to be that critical, and i hope you might too.
I don't know enough to know if this is good or clever. I do know his dead sister was called Dora. DORA. good name for the reborn.
I personally didn't engage. I'm a fan of Murakami. Each sentance should present a savour, every paragraph an experience, every story a punctuation. Call
me old fashioned if it's short it better be packed like big pickles in the last jar in the cupboard.
this is a philosophical piece. it's a kind of prose verse, but one working certain concepts into emotional forms. it's kind of a puppet play in words. it's mostly for a friend of mine, someone who's interested in this too. his response was that it was 'provocative', meaning it was over his head too. but, he's lazy and he'll probably read it some more to figure it out. that's about all i can expect.