ELEMENT 113 (Discovered in Japan)

Across great expanses of space,

Leaps,

Vastations,

And Spans of matter—great and small and dense,

I will struggle

To find you

And bring you home.

--J. T. BLEU

Ghost Rider in My Cracked Rear View

PAPERBACK VERSION OUT NOW!!!

MY ARCH EMILY

 

available at Amazon

SURREAL ESTATE -- It's my property,

A Visit to J. T. Bleu's SURREAL ESTATE -- It's my property, I can do what I want with it. Enjoy, but don't take it too seriously. Have a laugh.

 

 

ON MEIOSIS*

Or

TO PUT IT SUCCINTLY

“I Think I’ve Lost My Mind!”

Reported to be the last words uttered by the world’s first comedian, OOG NAGA MOGASTEIN, who was beheaded by a hostile primitive audience of homonoids in Olduvai Gorge, Africa, after being pummeled with strange monochrome bones left over from an earlier humanoid clan known as The Honeymooners 

 

The next day, Kit Dada was — wait, who am I kidding?  This story is going nowhere. After a nipple-piercing, most of us realize that things go nowhere until feeling is restored and you are able to hang a hand towel on the nipple ring from your tits without cringing.

   Therefore, let’s say some time passed, days, weeks, years, in fact, and with the murderer of his mother still at large, Kit decided to enter a sanatorium somewhere on the magic mountains of Switzerland, because he had never really recovered from the run-in with his old man, who was still kicking, going strong, and living in England, where he had successfully beaten the murder charge, and at the same time managed to completely write Kit out of his will and any and all family inheritance.

   Kit kicked around the States a few years with Penelope, until they had a flare up, and old accusations surfaced. She fell in love with a billionaire in Rio, and Kit just cracked up. That’s when he sought help. He was glad to be in Switzerland. The sanatorium was placid. The Swiss on the staff were properly Calvinistic and efficient. He liked that. And this is where he discovered he had a witch’s teat on his nose. He always thought it was a harmless mole up near the bridge, between his eyes, until one wise doctor, who called himself Napoleon Jesus Christ, told him it was indeed a witch’s teat.

   “Why do you say teat, when in actuality you mean tit?” asked Kit, because he really wanted to know. “Why T-E-A-T and not T-I-T? Is it a British Oxfordian teat or a Webster’s witch tit?”

   “Who is the doctor here, my friend,” answered Napoleon J.C. “I’ve been practicing the medical arts for two thousand years and you question my credentials?”

   “No, it’s just the spelling…” but Kit’s words trailed off as usual until he was in a blue funk.

   It was around this time that Penelope visited him, with her rich boyfriend, somebody named Uuli Siushi, a Swede who made a billion dollars on Argentine beef futures, and now resided in Rio de Janeiro making paper airplanes.

   “Hello, Kit, they said you were feeling better today. It’s been a long time. How are you?” She handed him a box of chocolate and some flowers. She also barked like the actress in the Eddie Murphy movie COMING TO AMERICA. It was cute. But Kit would soon forget all about the incident. It would leave a poignant vacuum in his mind that kind of sucked.

   “You are going surreal again, Kit. I’m worried.”

   “Don’t worry about me. I know what I am doing.”

   “Oh? What’s that?”

   “Forget about answers, Penelope, what I want are questions. You know? You did it, Loopy. I know you did it,” said Kit, looking out the window for the media. He was always suspicious of Penelope’s passive-aggressive hunger for fame and fortune.

   “Let’s not start with that again, Kit,” said Penelope, turning away to put on more lipstick. Then she took a selfie and uploaded it to Anderson Cooper at CNN. “He’ll know what to do with this,” she whispered.

   “Not the Anderson Cooper delusion again, baby. Don’t you know he is never going to respond to your texting?”

   “He will when I tell him that I found your mind in the gutter over on 42^nd street. Oh, yes, that will get a response, Kit. Trust me!”

   “I always trusted you; that’s why I’m in this mess.”

   “I know, Kit. Isn’t it wonderful? Oh my God, he texted me—Anderson Cooper texted me. I think I’m going to die.”

   “What did he say, luv?”

   “Drop dead.”

   “Gorgeous he means. Just what I expected from those twits at CNN. Come here, babe, for a hug.”  

 

 *****

 

*Meiosis is from the Greek, and means “to make something smaller” or disproportionately less than it really is.  Got it?

This is where J.T. BLEU shares his novel

The relationship ended years ago, in her sophomore year, when they both thought their love was captured in amber—forever. How could it change? But things did change. And one day, he was gone.

                                

She always told him he was as variable as light waves. He told her she was just projecting. But something reached into the amber and snatched their relationship away. The love was still there, but it was an artifact now, from another age.

---From MY ARCH EMILY

Proofread my novel today at writeon amazon:

Self Portrait -- #32

His uneven beard, dark black (which seems strange considering his brown hair that gets so bleached and brown-blond in the tropics) and thick growth on the cheeks, white at the chin (he will be 50 in 13 days), appears uneven—like fields and crops ravaged by drought, up near where he wishes he had thick sideburns(like Elvis, like his dad, even)—instead just wisps of whisker and spaces of smooth skin leave a gap of an inch or so up to the hairline at the top of the ear. (He has said that if he had full sideburns his high school acting career, in fact, his life would have gone another completely different direction).

 

Idiot.

 

It’s just another symptom of his Dostoyevsky period, as he calls it.

 

Oh, and as he paints these words, he battles ennui, of course, and melancholy and his own peculiar inner struggle with demons, old and new. He wonders if there is another way to say this, then gives up. Yet he proclaims some kind of satisfaction using a double negative, thus disavowing the need for happiness.

 

He wants to cherish his individuality and unique depressions--like a romantic poser. It’s always the same feeling, for what else can it be? He doesn’t analyze it too deeply, or care to, because his mind is too eclectic and super-charged, hungry for more knowledge and insight, this acts  as a counter to his ennui—you lovely dark lady, you.

 

He looks at the notes in his yellow legal pad and realizes that what he types here is all out of order, muddled, transformed, transmogrified from his original conception. Fucking Dada, when he wants to paint the Mona Lisa. The work will probably go through many incarnations until it is unrecognizable from this very script you are reading. So what he writes now may not be what you read—that feeling is there again, just off in the corner, fuck off Emily, no wait, I love you—and Dostoyevsky save a chair for me. but you know, I must say, "I find happiness with Emily over there behind the cupboard."

 

Music plays on the stereo (he still calls such things stereos); the Kenwood sound system that he and his wife bought three or four years ago over the Christmas season. Bach is conducive to writing. The cello suites, Pablo Casals, and yet he would play Landslide by the Dixie Chicks, over and over again—until it became a joke—he even heard it on David Letterman afterwards, applied to the President. It seemed like poetry, at the time, something from Wallace Stevens. He was moved by the thought of aging, death, time, aren’t we all? Sometimes the simple is most correct; Ockham’s edginess and perspicuity, says it all. He didn’t try to figure it all out. He just let himself go in the flood of tears and emotions. It was so different to him, crying like that.

 

The air in the room is chilly, he likes that, he says he came to Sapporo to be close to Russia and to live in the cold weather and to enter his Dostoyevsky period, he would read Russian writers here, in this very room, where he is now writing. His introduction to Dostoyevsky was through “The Master of Petersburg” by J.M. Coetzee, the South African writer. Fantastic book, he loved everything about it and fell in love. Demon possession, my ass.

 

He lived in South Africa for six years—from 1980, arriving the very day of John Lennon’s assassination, so how could he ever forget? Now you understand. He stayed until October 1986. You won’t see any of this in the self portrait that he paints right now. It’ll all be way under the last coat—deep down, layered, deep…almost inside the canvas.

OKU, The Deep Interior

On living in Japan

     *** 

So far ahead of you--I waited.

Time/space/light meant nothing.

Traveling far, dressed smartly, yet without wisdom, beyond reason,

my shallow fears aged my jeans until

            they were rags.

The t-shirt you tore off my chest, a badge of honor,

            used to humiliate me

Its ragged edges soft but viciously torn

Stopped—Again—Waiting

Next time, I'll be traveling light, I said.

 

 

If you care to remember, I had to throw it away (the t-shirt).

            Oh, and my sandals vanished, too.

Then I was naked, a baby, again, so old with pain — I know, blah, blah, you are not  listening again.

But that’s how I measure time, that’s how I try the tedious hours.

In stasis, I created nothing, but with indolence,
           

returning—I found vacancy and space.

Inn Reverse, (allow me some lazy doggerel, because I will never grow up),

 

where I wrote a verse,

            In that place where you found me, counterpoint and then fusion,

And so, we lingered;

I remember the tatami—the pungent aroma, particularly;

             you do too,

If you are being honest

You enjoyed the view from the window on the balcony.