OK Archive

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“Yes, yes – I think I understand,” I said, but I really didn’t, really, my mind clogged ambiguously and cogged jaggedly and intermittently and haphazardly – yes, haphazardly, the onlookers reported to the authorities later, when they, the authorities, were taking their statements in the sadistic dusk, that growing darkness of the gathering madness, the spectacle too much for words, yes too much, too much. There was this one spectator, a pig-faced man, overweight, with circular sunglasses, sweating profusely even though it was quite cool, who gaggled verbosely to all in earshot, drawing grotesque analogies and gesticulating in a way most repulsive and repugnant, as if he and he alone were fit to characterize the happening as if it were his own little private fiefdom, like some petty despot Leopold in his nauseating Congo, enslaving and torturing the natives, squeezing rubber trees shamelessly and avidly like some gluttonous drunk, visioning his bureaucratic hell like it was a charm that could be controlled by he and he alone. The truth is, I had no motivation to understand all this jabbering gibberish – no more than a turkey is motivated to understand why his head is about to be chopped off. OK, I’ll admit this analogy is a bit severe. Bur decapitation *is *severe in its finality, in its *closure*, in its zero-sumness. I don’t thing *zero-sum* makes a whole heap of sense here, but you get my meaning, my* gestalt*. I am irritated to the point of criticality at pettiness, especially when it comes to the kind of burgeois bureaucracy that we’re subjected too much too often in our over-regulated, dumbed-down society, a society where pablummy infotainment passes for culture, where *American Idol* has replaced Dostoevsky. You get my point. Where can I get some napalm?

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Fwd:

———- Forwarded message ———- From: Jon Sarkin <jonsarkin@gmail.com> Date: Sun, Sep 14, 2014 at 9:18 PM Subject: To: michael digregorio <m.digregorio@att.net> The door flew open to the sound of a boot breaking wood and glass. I knew immediately that this was not a good way to start my day. The intruder, I deduced, was not the bearer of good tidings. As I prepared for the sound of the boot breaking my jaw, a very specific thought, I recall, ran through my brain. It was like a cataclysmically spiking fever in its suddenness and relentlessness, and, although its imperation was admixed with the kind of noisy urgency that’s found in folks who’ve nothing better to do than plead with people to follow them on social media: e-mail me @ needydude@trivialwhining.com! follow me on twiiter @ #getalife! instagram me! pinterest me! etsy me! listen to me on i-tunes! call me on your i-phone! text me! be my friend on facebook! my space me! see my website! see my vine! i don’t know why this flashed in my mind as i awaited the boot to strike my face. it didn’t really seem to matter. at this point, i was gone, really gone, what with the harrowing, nightmarish week i spent in Elko still acid-etched on my head like a rabid wolverine lunging wildly at anything that moves. Does an animal in that state have any neuron that is not on adrenaline-stun, driven, riven haywire like the smell of burning hair or machinery overcranked, smoking a bluegray smoke that spells impending disaster and cacophonic, atavistic disaster. What the hell am I talking about, just stringing together babbling gibberish so that I don’t have to face my bleak future, writing this crap in an obsessive-compulsive jag, waiting for my boot-heels to be following. Yes, friends, the smoke-rings of my embered brain leave a smoking crater of macerated ideas, withered (and withering) concepts, disjointed prophesy, decayed innuendo, deconstructed meanings, lost chords, meaningless syntax, functionless workings, meandering arguments, losing debates, short-end-of-the-stick logic, irrational paradigms, elliptical patterns, and a sort the tie-dyed, patchouli-oily, earth-shoed Aquarian insanity that one might see at Dead concerts circa 1970. Ha-ha, kids! The dream is over! It seems like a dream that we *even* had some sort of dream in the first place. What were we thinking. Because of the dream’s nature, I fear we had no bloody idea. But now we must face *reality*, whatever the hell that is. Me, I’d rather fight than switch. Again, I digress. How many more times? But back to the boot about to crush my mouth. I think I know what this was all about. I knew it was a bad idea to deal with Savage Henry, but I really had no choice. I was out on parole from Chino, and my prospects were limited, dead end. I knew Henry from the old days, and habits like stealing cars die hard. A friend of Henry’s Diamond Dave, was doing a dime at Chino at the same time I was there, so like a fool I looked them both up when I was in Elko. OK, I traveled to Elko for the expressed puropose of hooking up with them. Like I said, I knew the idea of working with them was foul, but my better judgment went out the window, disappearing with the west wind like so many geese. Jesus, did I just say that? Or did I just *think* I did? Flashbacks are impossible to lose – I guess that’s why there called flashbacks, They’re always gnawing at your sinews. Just when you think they’re gone forever, the remissions erupts into a fulminating wart of psychic queasiness. — Jon Sarkin jonsarkin.com

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Fwd:

———- Forwarded message ———- From: Jon Sarkin <jonsarkin@gmail.com> Date: Sat, May 31, 2014 at 12:10 AM Subject: To: michael digregorio <m.digregorio@att.net> Dear Mike, It all started out, as petty bickerings frequently do, with something insignificant and then it steamrolled, snowballed, into a cascading vendetta of wildly hurled epithets involving general psychic defects. This seemed an ongoing situation with Jim and whomever he was tangling. This time it was a tangle about whether milk expired precisely on the date printed on the carton, or if it was OK to drink it a day after the expiration date. This picayune disagreement quickly accelerated – degenerated – into knocked and dragged ugliness regarding personality issues and gross characterizations. At time such as these, Jim sensed the anvil-feel of his head in a vice, that cloggish sensation of some mental head cold in which his sinuses ached with brain pain, his perception hurting like the siege of Leningrad. Then, in the morning, it would be over. He’d arise, go to the office, small-talk his colleagues, eat lunch, spreadsheet his computer, subway home, watch TV, TV dinner, paper-read, and sleep. Sleep. Sleep! Was it a solace or a curse? I guess, thought Jim, it depends on one’s dreams. Good dreams are a blessing. They show you the way to solution, the rainbow over the hill, that hapilly-ever-after sensation that only unwaking thoughts can deliver. He craved those kinds of dreams the way a school-kid longs for summers at the beach, those endless humid afternoons of sea-green waves and boardwalk games. An escape from reality. Maybe Thoreau had it right, he thought. If I advance confidently in the direction of my dreams, and endeavor to live the life which I’ve imagined, I’ll meet with a success unexpected in common hours. Hugo — Jon Sarkin jonsarkin.com

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JIM IN THE KITCHEN

Jim is a man, who chooses his word carefully. Strike that. He choose his *thoughts * carefully, and I suppose that the words which ensue come out with the same care as do his thoughts’ composition. But the thoughts are worthless, so the words, in the words of T.S. Eliot, are “meaningless as wind in dry grass or rats’ feet over broken glass in our dry cellar.” What in the hell was he talking about? I mean, everybody, including me, makes such a big deal about Eliot, but I think there might be some “emperor’s new clothes” mojo going on.. You evere read “The Wasteland?” All these allusions to myths, foreign language thrown in. OK, we get it – you’re well-educated. I guess i’m just kidding. He *is *a big deal. Anyway, back to Jim. Thinking about Jim reminds me of Gogol. I don’t feel like explaining why, but I’ll try. The little I’ve read of him smacks of a kind of meta-fiction, where he psychoanalyzes the character. I’m doing that now with Jim, or is he doing it with me. Am I doing it with myself, obsessively turning over and over the same rock of my mind? I guess I am. But I’m being self-effacing. My thoughts are *not *worthless. Or maybe they are. It depends on your perspective. There are plenty of folks who think they’re nonsense, and their opinions haunt me constantly. I know I’d be better off not caring what they think, but I do, and this cloying possibility that they might be right – that my life is a waste, makes me chocked with anxiety and uncertainty and fear. This is ugly stuff. Untidy, stuffed with bad craziness and unhealthy rumination. I am compelled to explore this. But back to Jim. He was in the kitchen. It was a sunny day, and the sunlight was shining through the window over the sink and leaving squares of brightness on the linoleum. He was sitting at the table staring at the floor. A cloud obscured the sun and the color of the squares dimmed. Outside a bird chirped. It was spring, and he wondered if it was migratory.

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metamorphosis

I awoke as a large bug. I know what you’re thinking. That I stole this idea from Kafka. Not true. OK, it’s partly true. OK, OK, it’s totally true. But I didn’t really awake as a large bug, so I’m nos stealing nothing from nobody no-how. I awoke as I usually do, befuddled and needing to pee. Peeing relieves my bladder but never my befuddledness. I fool myself into thinking a strong cup of coffee will do that, and although it does turn down the volume of my addled brain’s transmissions slightly, it doesn’t do much, truth be told, to de-web the intricacies and complexities of my cobwebbed mind. This mental untidiness dogs at my heels all day, and the stuff I do to tidy it up is like arranging deck chairs on a magic, swirling ship.

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JIM’S FEET FEEL LIKE TRIVETS

Jim is well aware that in the morning he’ll have to wake again to the grinding gears of his life, that empty, desultory feeling that leaves him in a state of imbalance and incoherence. For him sleep is a futile halftime. Morning never fails to amaze him with its charm or lack thereof. His feet feel like welded trivets as he slogs his path to the bathroom. They meet the cold tile like unwanted guests at a housewarming nobody wanted on a street where they never wanted to live. There is a painting of a boat in the bathroom. It was left there by the previous owner. Jim hates it but never took it down. He’ll tell you why if you ask him but my advice is not to. And if you do you can always say I warned you no to. So don’t, OK?When Jim wakes up his hands are numb and tingly. This has been an ongoing problem lately and concerns him but not enough to consult a doctor. He hears the kids next door laughing as they play on their backyard swing set, their hair glinting in the morning sun, their laughter sounding like it’s directed at him as if they’re sharing some private derisive joke.