New York has the tendency to intensify whatever tendencies
one has, as Cocaine inhaled and infused into the mind of the genuine genius.
One never notices the sky, the “up,” beyond the high-rise, heaven-push of
skyscrapers, peppered here and there with flocks of birds that now called “The
Big Apple” its “only” preferred meal. Impressions of New York can be better
said impressions needing no carbon copies; everything was decisively in carbon,
made of carbon, even the kiss between man and woman is carbon-dated. It was
enough to sour a trekker’s utopian nostalgia of leaving a lost era. The
scavenger is made redundant, unnecessary, as a rising generation gathering its
momentum and makes of the presiding, unnecessary; because for the scavenger, as
for the corporate mongrel, the corner-hustling mongrel, all is conveniently in
fingertip’s reach and what couldn’t be found in linear methodology, so happened
to be accessible in happenstance and just juxtaposition. Dispassion is the
passion taken by inertia and an emerged madness seen more so when the “no one”
finds themselves desperately wanting to be “someone” and in the standard of
today’s way, takes what has been done in futile attempt to make it their own;
the first man to jump off the Empire State Building in a parachute becomes a
spectated sensation; the second man walks away unnoticed, the cops themselves
uninterested in his in legal infractions. Such a soft touch of miserable
specimens find the Crow himself so harshly croaking a rolling dive into the
netherworld of the melange of every world, murky reflections of pre-digested
aura, blurred, impoverished travesty of true self. And behind those moulages,
finely waxed and fixed to flesh and fowl, new kicks to the juvenile delinquents
without materials for a riot arises, minds become limited as Afghan Hounds, any
prices is entertain to pay the pills and such myth of people having costly to
learn when their ignorance makes them suffer, could not seem so much more
farther away As one installed with the human schadenfreude, turning away from
all things ordinary when they’ve taken on ominous significance and suggestion
would have been counterproductive, counter-revolutionary, a human against
humanism. From that day forward, since my sole expenditure of New York, I’d
carry the intentions to make a fuss, a most violent fuss indeed and the tea?
I’ll take it with honey and a bit of venom, what’s it all worth without a
habitual shock to the viscera now and then? The train back to JFK seemed so
long, so tiresome, insanely insoluble, as I came to discover entertaining
myself with the orbiting human race too came with its adverse reactions I
failed to recognize, or care to avoid all together. With movement, there felt
no movement but all motion. It was that very train returning me to the terminal
which would close the final chapter on [The Naked Novels] and all books I’d
written, forgot to write, wrote to discard, negligently left in the boudoirs of
past lovers and discarded friends, when writing was rebellion and sing was a
possibility unsinkable because it was unthinkable. I am singing as loudly as
ever before, at this very instance, for those mentioned, those who will be
mentioned, those who will never be mentioned and those I forgot to mention the
same as those I have never thought to mention. And though I am now only talking
to me and myself, walking against the flora of an unknown land, reciting a poem
written on the sea bottom, a riot of colour as Orpheus torn apart by women, to
reflect everything and to see nothing, which has become the substance made of
dreams; Or have you failed to notice the tears of conquest in my latest notes
on this definitive novel?
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