...(From dusty NFTD Archives)
...this thing of ours, "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." is just so much pseudo-intellectual junk food for your already overworked cerebellum; folderol where there should be substance; or if in fact there might be a purpose to it.
…tell the truth I'm not sure what the purpose would be...actually I'm not at all sure of much of anything. NFTD could BE real literature as defined by - well, whoever decides what literature is, and incidentally, who does? To my way of thinking, YOU do. You the reader as opposed to they the critics.
…this antediluvian dictionary I have says literature is: the profession of an author; production of writings, especially of imaginative prose, verse etc. So I have to say I qualify, NFTD is imaginative and rife with prose and verse and worse...if you can take Noah at his word. …(…ok, ok, we don't exactly have 'War and Peace' here…) Nor is NFTD boring…
…hmmm…what in literature bores me? When first I began to read 'Wuthering Heights' I was expecting and prepared to be lulled to sleep and bored to tears but au contraire, it was wonderful...I was going to say 'Studs Lonigan' but I guess after all it wasn't a bore but rather it was tedious reading because this schmuck Lonigan was SUCH a friggin' loser...got to me after awhile it did. Great for your melancholia...
…so ok, NFTD isn't boring. Then what is it? For me it's an act of sublimation; figuratively speaking I am purifying and refining my 'socially unacceptable impulses & biological drives,' this according to Webster. (...and Sam...and Freud) Webster makes it seem to me that I have serious psychological problems underlying "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." and he may be right, but...what can one do? Besides, who the Hell is he?
FITZPATRICK! SPENCER! RASA! RASA DABRILLA...
...where o where have you gone friends of my wild youth in Boston...O Rasa you Lithuanian crown jewel with your inimitable accent and heart-breaking laugh...your apple-green jade, almond eyes...and you Paul...what's become of you? In all my life Charlie - are you there, Charlie, are you? Are you there!? In all my life Charlie I never would have said that metal spade would actually have pierced the rooftop of the squad car below in the alley off Commonwealth Avenue, but there it was pointing up at us three stories above and we soon were fast making tracks down the fire escape...but o as you know Fate will intervene at every step in your life and it suddenly loomed large before you as you slipped and fell the last fifteen feet to the ground, breaking your forearm in the fall. Ouch, I can hear the bone snap lo these 40 years later…
...all of you gone now, victims of heartless time, relentless, pursuing, ubiquitous indiscriminating time...more than likely I'll never see any of you again...my aching heart breaks for you dear memories of lost youth, why, you may be dead...breakfast in Bickford's...drinks on The Carousel, in the Stuart Street Tavern...the dangers...robbing, being robbed, mugging, being mugged...the city lights gleaming down on the seamy side of life…
...and light years from Vermont, from Attleboro, from reason...the memories rivet my attention and for just a brief moment I'm actually back there in 278 Commonwealth Avenue, riffling through the stolen mails and swilling pilfered wine and bootlegged beer...counting the swag...The Palace on Washington Street, long gone now...in those days, home of the blues, my black friend William Henry Robinson Jr. introduced me into the juke joint and I was quite comfortable, no one seemed to care I was white...and that music! I may never see Bill Robinson again, o you tall handsome drink of water you with your distinguished moustache and grey silver fox hair, you I'll never forget...a walk on the wild side...no I may never see you again but I've had The Blues ever since.
...this thing of ours, "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." is just so much pseudo-intellectual junk food for your already overworked cerebellum; folderol where there should be substance; or if in fact there might be a purpose to it.
…tell the truth I'm not sure what the purpose would be...actually I'm not at all sure of much of anything. NFTD could BE real literature as defined by - well, whoever decides what literature is, and incidentally, who does? To my way of thinking, YOU do. You the reader as opposed to they the critics.
…this antediluvian dictionary I have says literature is: the profession of an author; production of writings, especially of imaginative prose, verse etc. So I have to say I qualify, NFTD is imaginative and rife with prose and verse and worse...if you can take Noah at his word. …(…ok, ok, we don't exactly have 'War and Peace' here…) Nor is NFTD boring…
…hmmm…what in literature bores me? When first I began to read 'Wuthering Heights' I was expecting and prepared to be lulled to sleep and bored to tears but au contraire, it was wonderful...I was going to say 'Studs Lonigan' but I guess after all it wasn't a bore but rather it was tedious reading because this schmuck Lonigan was SUCH a friggin' loser...got to me after awhile it did. Great for your melancholia...
…so ok, NFTD isn't boring. Then what is it? For me it's an act of sublimation; figuratively speaking I am purifying and refining my 'socially unacceptable impulses & biological drives,' this according to Webster. (...and Sam...and Freud) Webster makes it seem to me that I have serious psychological problems underlying "...NOTES FROM THE DUMP..." and he may be right, but...what can one do? Besides, who the Hell is he?
FITZPATRICK! SPENCER! RASA! RASA DABRILLA...
...where o where have you gone friends of my wild youth in Boston...O Rasa you Lithuanian crown jewel with your inimitable accent and heart-breaking laugh...your apple-green jade, almond eyes...and you Paul...what's become of you? In all my life Charlie - are you there, Charlie, are you? Are you there!? In all my life Charlie I never would have said that metal spade would actually have pierced the rooftop of the squad car below in the alley off Commonwealth Avenue, but there it was pointing up at us three stories above and we soon were fast making tracks down the fire escape...but o as you know Fate will intervene at every step in your life and it suddenly loomed large before you as you slipped and fell the last fifteen feet to the ground, breaking your forearm in the fall. Ouch, I can hear the bone snap lo these 40 years later…
...all of you gone now, victims of heartless time, relentless, pursuing, ubiquitous indiscriminating time...more than likely I'll never see any of you again...my aching heart breaks for you dear memories of lost youth, why, you may be dead...breakfast in Bickford's...drinks on The Carousel, in the Stuart Street Tavern...the dangers...robbing, being robbed, mugging, being mugged...the city lights gleaming down on the seamy side of life…
...and light years from Vermont, from Attleboro, from reason...the memories rivet my attention and for just a brief moment I'm actually back there in 278 Commonwealth Avenue, riffling through the stolen mails and swilling pilfered wine and bootlegged beer...counting the swag...The Palace on Washington Street, long gone now...in those days, home of the blues, my black friend William Henry Robinson Jr. introduced me into the juke joint and I was quite comfortable, no one seemed to care I was white...and that music! I may never see Bill Robinson again, o you tall handsome drink of water you with your distinguished moustache and grey silver fox hair, you I'll never forget...a walk on the wild side...no I may never see you again but I've had The Blues ever since.
No comments:
Post a Comment