excerpted from L.R.D. (forthcoming)
Man is an oak. There is no more robust in nature. There is no need for the whole universe to take arms to defend him. A drop of water is not enough for his preservation. (Ducasse)
when Writer takes a new job, Writer likes to find out whom it is important to be nice to… Writer had these sweats in the early morning because overnight Writer dreamt of the forest, or Pascal… Writer sweated and Writer sweated and Writer stood in front of people and Writer stands there looking pathetic in his new job and miserable and Writer talks and if he’s had coffee then Writer sweats more but Writer talks more and so it’s easier… no no… Writer doesn’t like to watch the new films… no no… Writer is within an anxiety, an anxious state, a hole… this is correct for Writer, although his wife often suffers more from this and Writer worries about her… Writer is interested in anything that forces a person into a position of extremity… his relatives are nearly all in sympathy with him… Writer would get something to eat, or should… no no… this is tough, as he’s not sure what they mean by “health,” and he’s not sure what they mean by “friends”… David Bowie explored the fascists, in turn, or no… David Bowie did piles of cocaine and called Adolf Hitler one of the first rockstars… Writer is interested in anything that forces a person into a position of extremity… when people do him wrong, Writer feels he should pay them for it, just for doing him wrong and hopefully ruining things… it’s definitely tied with Writer’s present desire to quit writing, not because Writer doesn’t love writing, but because Writer feels as though Writer persists in trying, and persists in keeping pushing on, only to find himself in exactly the same place every moment of his living… it’s as if you’re there, and you’re feeling that thee presence of potential death is so loud, that you feel as though you should jump just to complete this apparently logical action in such an absurd circumstance… not only does Writer do this once in a while, but most of the time, if not all of the time… no no… it’s stupid, so stupid…
apparently constant reassurance, intimacy, home-based hobbies, are things which would appeal to or be natural things to Writer—these seem useful, probably, as a person has to kind of situate themselves within the world, and that’s kind of stupid, a person should be able to just be a person, but they can’t just be people—Writer can’t just be a person, no no—because of the ways in which thee world works, and stupid things like circumstance, or whatever… it makes a person become forced to do things which might refute their nature, or something, and then a person is fucked, as all people are fucked, and thus we tell ourselves stuff as Writer tells himself stuff… to not be such a gigantic piece of shit and waste of shit… and a show to watch… and mayonnaise… and nonsense is a kind of sense, a version of it… and people are moving around… and the end was the perfect iteration… and that’s rare… and you listened to it happening… Writer listened to “My Girl is a Boy” by Your Old Droog… Writer listened to And Who Shall Go to the Ball? And Who Shall Go to the Ball?… Writer listened to “People Can Choose” by L.R.D., or “Ice Fire”… or Balls… or Bells… or Nuits de la Fondation Maeght Vol. 1… or Spiritual Unity… and in it found the word of something whole… and in it found the word of something whole… and in the glitchy changing things were going on… a phone upon the bed the TV going at night… a dog asleep, is sleeping… a dog on the TV… Albert Ayler meet Peter Brötzmann… meet L.R.D… meet the Nobody… meet the Nobody walking around the room with their shirt off… the Nobody of avant jazz… the Editor, the Writer… go to bed…
a little fond of loathsome historical aberrations… no no… no thing holds Writer quicker than a wonderful cop… no no… got the floor now pay attention… no no… Writer listened for years to the people who sing… dead idiots… the instrument being played with the mouth—the glass—is a kind of singing… Justice Yeldham, my only friend… a bit of a corpse, you see it yes, you can see it, yes? put this word here and then include a word which would end the sentence… ending the sentences for you, for Writer… put this word here and then include a word which would end the sentence… end this sentence just as soon as Writer started it… good-looking men and women shopping for saws… my son is named No and he’s an avid fan of Howard Hughes, or strawberry milk… yes of course Howard Hughes the madman but had it been strawberry milk, what then? welcome to the park—gotta steal your car… the light from that slipper is blinding me… listen up, dipshit, going to steal your brand new car… good boy, Writer says to the fish—picked up… no no… behold with what—companions—Writer walked the streets of Babylon and wallowed in the mire thereof, as if in a bed of spices and precious ointments… noxious plume of your dogshit personage happened upon by an evening walking spy… Writer can see the cows upon the hill from where Writer sits in Walmart’s lot… the evening walking spy… the red car breathes a snotty smell… the blue car dipped its nose into the small mound of shit upon the ground… Writer mixed two doubled cups of tea within the large Nalgene bottle with its Yeti sticker… no no… Writer bought a shirt and two books… the smell of piss adorns my every cloth… Writer has on his Adidas hat… good weepy eyes upon the lover’s gnarling dimple… no no… one side of their face is subdued, a palsy, like Conway the Machine… no no… Writer saw upon the slew a bit of rock Writer longed to tongue… Writer filled his cheeks with salty rocks from along the ocean’s side… whom, womb, restlessness… Writer has no teeth and so the rocks were comforts, with which to gum… every gnawing made him better in his standing… his living thus enhanced, Writer went in for a swim… the short was gray like the water… the air was gray like the sand… his body went out into the waters there in dim light… the cold water from the ocean poured in… his anxiety went out of him like the moors… his body white in the dark water and the wet death… his body didn’t stop its churning within the icy waves until he’d shat and slowly ambled back to find his clothing…
Writer then upon the ground… Writer went for soup within the village and heard an old man playing his guitar… no no… Writer does not think… Writer had his bicycle… every morning Writer wakes up and buries his face in a mound of mold he’s kept in the corner of his bathroom… it’s black, and stinking… outside, the rocks in his teeth, they’re black… all black, his mouth a stinking hole… Writer inhales deeply through his nose and mouth then urinates out the window onto his neighbor’s deck… no no… his piss is redolent with death… no no… Writer sees the bodies of runners slowly fucking their ways up the stupid streets… no no… Writer goes into the local thing… whatever, whatever… Writer buys a local piece of shit… Writer takes it outside into the lot and crawls under the van… Writer opens up the oil and lets it empty onto his stinking body, his stinking skin… laughter, rattlings, sobs… Writer walks down the street while it goes away… no no… people are always behaving like such gigantic piles of filth… no no… how high can the blood boil up… sure, sure… how much more of your spit can Writer borrow… cut the lingual shit with your magnificent caterwauling you insufferable cop… no no… cut it, quiet it, address the reader… mere pseud mag ed… sorry, sorry… another quiet morning atop the sea of shit within the bustling world of the Americans… yea, yeah… hello, Phil, good morning… welcome home Phil you’re home here… good day, rest up… eat a filet upon the buffet… I can’t do that, Dave…
He left the stage quickly and rid himself of his mummery and passed out through the chapel into the college garden. Now that the play was over his nerves cried for some further adventure. He hurried onwards as if to overtake it. The doors of the theatre were all open and the audience had emptied out. On the lines which he had fancied the moorings of an ark a few lanterns swung in the night breeze, flickering cheerlessly. He mounted the steps from the garden in haste, eager that some prey should not elude him, and forced his way through the crowd in the hall and past the two jesuits who stood watching the exodus and bowing and shaking hands with the visitors. He pushed onward nervously, feigning a still greater haste and faintly conscious of the smiles and stares and nudges which his powdered head left in its wake. (Joyce)
quiet down… long has Writer wished to plug his fist through his own wiry socket and see what pops out… no no… a glutton for big meandering idiots…no no… so grateful to see you all father it… so grateful to see you all gathered here in Dallas… for someone somewhere it was the greatest day of their life… for someone it was the end of a long path, a simple conclusion on top of a big fat cake… mine eyes have big dusty polyps when Writer goes to the top of their ladders and prepares himself to die… so grateful to the city of Phoenix… I’m so glad I’m dead now… what a wonderful weeping morning on Washington—in Washington… upon the Washington… upon the river… Pete Seeger upon the river going there… his body there, the old man… welcome to the bubbling river, idiot… welcome to all idiots upon the river… it’s the day on which the bodies will be buoys in their tubes… Writer likes to go beneath them to look at the diseases they leak upon the oils… make me some popcorn you illiterate fuckhead! now now, we won’t have any of that now now… moocow nope not now… good dog upon the now now… good whispering dipshit dog illiterate upon the now now… Writer not now… Writer, embody a husk upon the ground with the corn… shuck me and cut my head off, my living head… good idea you insufferable idiot… good welcome idea on the morning of you, your—idiot… Writer can’t, Writer can’t wait to see you get married to the police… Writer just can’t wait any longer… Writer wanted you to understand… Writer reached back into the guts of time and tried to pull an apple out… why would anyone deny Eve her apple… you’re a piece of shit if you want a person not to eat an apple… unless they’re your allergic child… O shut the fuck up you sentimental bore… kiss a stump upon the shit if you—if you—if—dumb ground and feed your head through a sleeve of lambskin… great, great… another dumb idea from a dumb asshole… a wonderful time to be alive and to witness yourself becoming a corpse… Writer will leave a heaving corpse… Writer will leave behind him a NASCAR driver corpse…
Grant Maierhofer is the author of L.R.D. (from which “Moldoror” was excerpted, forthcoming from Erratum Press), Ebb, The Compleat Lungfish, and the forthcoming Sentence-Making, a book on writing.
Read Grant's story in Propagule 1 here.