Which means my god, my goddess, my dead vulture, is consumed and consuming at the carrion of capital because the collapsed body always, at some point, desires beyond the circle of itself, beyond the inscription etched at the edge of felt and fat. In the dream (which went on forever) I was trapped in Japan and it was this horrible disaster. I’m assuming it was an earthquake, but that was never said in the dream. We were all running and my language skills were just terrible. So most of the dream had to do with trying to communicate with people and buy things I needed in small stores. I have another weird thing going on where I am repeatedly (now and again) “remotely viewing” this house. It is not a dream and it is not a hallucination. It’s just this image of a house that I keep seeing and I don’t know what it means. I could almost draw the house, but I really can only see one corner of it very clearly. It’s lifted up on columns like a Le Corbusier design and has a really harsh glassy open corner. I think it’s in the desert, possibly California. While I’m confessing things let me confess that I still wonder “whose eyes” I was seeing through when I hovered in that scene and saw the exhumation taking place. The “sothsegger” of this witty and learned text is no confidently utopian authority, but rather a non-normative figure who spouts “wild words” that lead to punishment and marginalization (l. 251). Not possessing the power to strategically manipulate speech, this poem’s truth-teller is in fact not able to tell a lie, not gifted with a supposedly normal facility with language. The truth-teller “can not speke in termes ne in tyme nother, / But bablith fourth bustusely as a barn un-ylerid” (l. 49-50). He makes me think of M John Harrison, who writes, This year I decided, against my normal practice, to send the Tories a Christmas Card. I hope everything that can go wrong for you will, that everything you can’t control comes back on you & controls you, and that as you sing your self-exculpating Victorian hymns (sing in exculpation) and eat your vast expensive meals, you smell for just a second your humanity rotting in its grave. A Happy Christmas to everyone else, the best possible Christmas to the fucked up and the nearly done, all the deadbeats and ne’er-do-wells, the metaphysicians, atheists and losers, all the so-called scroungers, all those not in receipt of a Royal pardon, all the thoughtful, intelligent and above all decent people who believe there is such a thing as a society, the readers and the writers, students and philosophers, and – especially – a big shout out to the 32,000 UK citizens who on Christmas Eve didn’t receive benefits to which they were entitled, due to “administrative error”.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Aaron Apps, “Three Fold Expansion Of The Fleshy Questions Photos Bring”, at Eat Genius, 25 Dec 013; JBR; William Keckler, “Oh, I forgot to say”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 25 Dec 013; JBR; Brantley Bryant, “Abstract: Wild Words, Disability and Truth-Telling in Late Medieval England”, at Reorienting Disability: NCS 2014, 24 Dec 013 (re “the oddly cantankerous early-fifteenth century alliterative poem Mum and the Sothsegger (or “Mum [Hush, Say-nothing] and the Truth-teller”; “soothsayer” here having no prophetic connotations)”);JBR, but see next; M John Harrison, “happy xmas, Iain Duncan Smith”, at the m john harrison blog, 25 Dec 013]