Henry A. Cotton

A process-
induced-
state has
overtaken us.
We can hardly keep our eyes open.
And our questions of
compatability
are suddenly -
antiquated.
It is a common goal uniting us:
intention.
And counter:
application.
And the kitchen counters
reflect this disparity.
Career makers for the future
archaelogists of motivation,
feelings,
and other 20th century nonsense.
And the reason
for this simply inexcusable
bedroom
is that, in our way,
we do not want to know what things are
when what they mean
is what gets
the patients
out of bed.
This
is the groundwork
of modern sociology.
And its obviousness
strikes at my
Inner Conflict
(and yours? Can I know this?)
because the groundwork
of modern physics:
tiny particles,
have absoultely no symbolic meaning to
me, struggling just to make the damn bed.

Recap. It is Wednesday, September 23ish, I am in Munich. I have a mild cold, which has become progressively and consistently worse since early this morning when I first decided that it was not actually allergies, and that the accompanying tiredness and negative effects for social skills could prove disastrous for the next week or so (a period during which I may potentially become -temporarily- without residence.) So, there's that. It is because of this that I am "home," resting, and not at the ballet, although in all honesty I would not be there anyway, and would probably instead be reading or not reading at the student bar next-door, making a point of not talking to the (generally loud) American exchange students. I have no desire to become part of the American ex-pat community. Is this because as an American I was trained to distruct "communities"? I'll come back to this. hearts and minds, friends.

I am mildly dissappointed that my notebook I bought specifically for the point of writing in, after the last was filled to capacity, is still more-or-less blank except for travel essentials and phone numbers of people I was too afraid to call because they will talk to me in German, or in any event, with spoken words. There is a two-page diagram of the general plot for an as yet untitled novel, but, that's what there is. One of the subplots is based around the main character receiving a package not addressed to him that an industriously lazy postman tricks him into signing for, only to discover that the addressee is chronically not at home, for months on end. This is a true story. I still have the package. My neighbor suspects it is stereoids (based on prior knowledge of the individual in question) but I don't think that will make for a very exciting conclusion. Suggestions? Should I pretend that I studied English Lit and just make it empty? Should I just forget to ever bring it up again, so that everyone wonders? Anyway, I probably should start writing with the beginning. When I am back in Kassel?

Oh and just to make it official, I am planning to stay in Germany. I don't feel that I need a reason for this. It will be official once I go to extend my visa, because the office in Kassel requires things like proof that I have enough "money" to survive, which I obviously don't have due to all of my jobs being illegal under the table affairs, and also because I haven't remembered to put money in the bank for months and months. So I will do this. Also, find an apartment. That is probably less of a priority than it really should be, but, I mean, either way I have health insurance. And interesting people to talk to.

Oh, I did go to the "Oktoberfest." That is what everyone thinks of Germany, so I felt it important to go see that so I can conform my stories to people's expectations. That sounds bad, but really, it is the essence of human culture. Imagine if I were to write a short-story about the time I, thinking I was accidentally an illegal alien, tried to extend my visa, only to discover, after many frantic hours of document-gathering and bureaucratic circus-acts, that my visa was actually valid for another 8 months or so but I had been confused because dates are written backwards in the US and I wrote all of the dialog(ue) in the original German! No one wants that, especially not me, since I severely failed the writing portion of my German exam, without regrets.

Oh and in the, um, otherwise, column, the "Oktoberfest" was actually fun and interesting and all good things and I bought souvenirs and drank a liter of beer and spent all day talking about buying a hat which I never did, because of cost-benefit. I met people from places, predominantly Munich, which was quite surprising. I learned one song, but I don't know the words very well or exactly. All in all I'd say I know this song about as well as I know "Born to Run," which means I can sing along and as long as the song is playing loudly in the background, or others are singing with me, you'd never know that I really only know the last word of each line. That's alright.

Accents can be funny things. I have nothing further on this topic.

And that is all, I just wanted to write and let everyone know I am writing. No obligations on anyone (ever??) If anyone ever wants to come to Germany, I can highly recommend that because it is Someplace New. Obviously this doesn't hold true if you are German, but it is Especially True if you live in Kansas "a.t.m." et cetera. I am going downstairs now. Goodnight moon.

Settle

I slept for days
and the seasons changed
as suddenly as
twelve hours can pass without
you realizing
you don't feel
and this is not the
dreamlike state
it once was;
was it?
Everything's gravitated
towards some abstract
point
that can't even be bothered
to stay centered,
and in this half second
I feel it
overly audacious,
to use a word other than hopeless,
to plan for the next twenty years
when the planning itself
will
surely take forty
at any rate.
And it's creeping
like a slow foreshadowing
of a cliched good to evil
morality play
ending on a note of quiet redemption:
optimistic,
reverent,
and utterly boring.
like technology,
harbored into quiet quarters
of the social landscape
holding us hostage to our
new vocabulary
and the desperation of necessity
and our need to control remotely
the whole spectrum:
it's inherently violent;
mathematical.
And we
are
not