26. "On the Wings of Love"
"Rimbaud a natural ignu in his boy pants"
- Allen Ginsberg, "Ignu"
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by Edward Lacie
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This is the episode I've had the most trouble constructing. The first draft of it is very sketchy and confused.
During the second rewrite, a short description of Jim Post's attempt at murdering Baysans replaced the entire first draft. That entire entry, for which no notes ever existed, was deleted by a hacker.
I've replaced the missing material of this episode with the following comparative texts. - ewl
A poem, "The Philomath", by Edward Lacie, before he abandoned this narrative in March, 2003:
In dreams, the letters in the book
turn right before my eyes, morphing.
I walk across the youthful Alps.
Better than "If on a winter evening" by Italo Calvino (a different book each time it is picked up).
I amble across the brush around the desert.
Letters change vaguely, so words look like a foreign language through which some English can be deduced.
They had to carry me out.
Blaise Cendrars had to know Gertrude Stein. She wrote as much.¹
(The book I hold was owned, in fantasy, by Rimbaud during his period of philomathy when he'd study ravenously, bombastically, in loud and long sessions lasting over twenty-four hours.)
It's my last ride through Paris. Don't stop.
End of poem.
"Someone did our work for us," Cooper says of the door within Owl Cave being opened.
I wrote the above poem on a dare from Baysans. We've talked it over and know what a vain, vapid road the goal of poetry is. Even so, he couldn't help but also write a matching poem.
The same poem, "The Philomath", by Greg Baysans:
Creature with a middle name, Serendip.
Garry called himself a Philomathopath.
I can see. I can see. I can see.
The qubit is a poem of great consequence. A equals Z.²
How can you ask how can I be well? Go to hell.
I'm being held captive in a world that won't let up.
Every day no one answers
my question. Why am I unemployed (as investigative journalist poet,
if nothing else?) when Ali Hassania, an English-illiterate and
one untrained in anything to do with one of the arts of Benjamin Franklin
(typesetting), makes the tens of thousands he makes each year
for thirty years of doing wrong what he knows no better than
Chris Butler makes, I'd guess, over $50,000 a year to be Dean
(Dean is dead, I shudder to see his name used here/there) of Instructors
though he can't punctuate a sentence or type a letter?
Until I have answer, I remain unemployed and pondering contacting
Social Security for mental health benefits.
An inclusion by Jim Post, "The Philomath":
Women have to learn so much faster than
men in a whisper after a rape scene in a movie.
It it New Years Day yet? Labor Day? Memorial?
Translating. Schwitters. Reverdy. Prévert (who, like Cendrars, was concerned about being accessible to the everyday reader as well as to those more "experienced" with "L"iterature), Neruda, too, Baudelaire. Malarme.
"If you take the action, you choose the consequences," Dr. Phil is saying on TV as I retype all this. As I wrote this originally, of course, Cooper was in the woods looking for the door into the Dark Cave.
I wonder of my ability to create a character with so many mental defects.
I make no sense of Jim Post's inclusion here, but I acknowledge that writing isn't his forté and that I don't have to be the judge of its validity.
What name did Germaine Neuveau use? Did Juan Gris³ ever write poetry? Did I ever mention that? - ewl
I realize as I put the finishing touches on this narrative that the hacker added parts of Jim Post's entries, but I can't tell which parts. I have suspicion that the hacker is Jim Post. This episode's hacking is the final evidence I needed to convince me that it was he who hacked into this e-novel just before I was finished with it.
Germaine Nouveau became a penniless, mendicant beggar at a church.
Catch me if you can. The child in me plays a good game of hide and go seek.
Djami, the only one I cared enough about to try to send an inheritance.
(By the time Rimbaud's "inheritance" reached Africa, after the expected legal wranglings were over after Rimbaud's death, Djami had died a very short time before.)
"We'll have a live report from the scene," the newscaster adds.
I start to wonder if my experiment has been a success: write a novel in the manner of history of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries: start with the intended result and rewrite history until it conforms. Has it worked?
This is the end of the philomath.
Khandi Alexander is the example of an actor as opposed to the example of Andy Dick who is a performer. On "News Radio" she wore class and a happy attitude; on "CSI: Miami" she seems to be a very sad character, more than would befit someone who does autopsies. Andy Dick would do Pee Wee Herman as Andy Dick.
In the same paragraph that Steinmetz quotes Rimbaud's disappointment after the two-year-get-rich-quick scheme ("I find myself with the 15,000 francs I started with, after exhausting myself in a horrible manner for two years. I have no luck!"), he writes, "He is now struck by his first serious physical ailments."
I use myself and Enron as an example, not to say "poor me" but to show that it can happen to anyone. Baysans uses himself as an example to show that educated people do not get educated jobs. Rimbaud uses himself as an example to show that his failure is a failure of the established order.
"Bad boys, bad boys," sings the theme song from the television.
End of episode.
Excellent work can be done, can be found. It must be the luck of the draw. Rimbaud came to believe he had a "Midas touch" which had begun when he was writing poetry that earned him no respect or regard or reward.
The attitude is similar with Baysans who has told me, "As long as George Bush has that job, there is no place for competence in the workplace and no place for me. I feel like Rimbaud and that's never a good thing."
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