More Pide

My name is Janson. You can call me Jason. I run a supernatural detective agency. We investigate  the Conspiracy, the phenomena of which has many names and states, so in that I’m different from my fraternal twin, the Rhebothate Starr, trail raider of nntall Arizona and the west much more concrete. Concrete work though is something we all aspire to. The extra mundane you can hardly say exists, cannibals in neighborhoods, churches that advertise trips to the heavenlies.  Secret suspect orgs with weird names that even if we know what they are we don’t. And then  the usual mountains of dust, we have in common, but no  trails you can see unless you imagine them, no dudes to pillory, unless you think yourself one, and no ghost writer to translate any of this either like the infamous Eagin, the man whose name is initials who writes anonymous pseudonymous essays and travel accounts under so many names Outlook’s Microsoft canceled his accounts. No loss there. The always want backup info reluctant to be given. So even if I wanted to get down the agenda in a table of contents, it doesn’t necessarily have an order, a logic, the supernatural being off the wall..

So if you ask how I got mys tart it was nothing, I moved into a couple of neighboroods one at a time ten years apart, one where they were builfing a freeway and the other which look civilized but turned out a little odd. So experience made me do it and inclination too I just seem to end up in these places at the end of things, a catalyst and then I’m gone. That’s why I never fix up the houses I live in beyond the outset. Figuring when it’s done I go, so to prolong, get some longevity to the thing, better to leave it rough.  In the making, in the raw. This is going to seem like theHarvard case study method, which are supposed to add up to something, lke how to run a company like a good mba, but to me, here, the proof is in the pudding, so try not to get it on lyour chin. If I say society and religion and bawderized science inside a garden overgrown with ironwood and bauhina, rosemary and willow you see the contradiction in the style, which is perfectly illustrated in both my sister and me who considered herself a Mennonite assassin. Her rides and he fame of her rides in the grand canyon were some years ago now, not that I can tell you what she’s up to, I got my own horse to ride, for if she read Whitbread and Russell math on horseback, I read Wittgenstein, who edited them not that anyboy cares either way except being always at the end of things gave a sympathy for the ends, so him carrying tolstloy gospels ain his posket all over Russia and in the preison camp in Italy, and hiding out as a schoolmaster in Norway, that the just hanging in a cabin to hear his own thoguhts appeals to me as much as logmaan in the nazi camp listening to a bird. Birds indeed, flocks of doves and mockers in morning song are what I know as I walk the streets before dawn and join in. try it some time. Not a lot of traffic then.

Wbut what is realer than the supernat is the real, young or old in another country, crammed in a station wagon with 10 people and their luggage traveling hairpin turns up mountain with all thir bandannas and cultivations. What kind of world is it imagined here with giants and gods but no ghosts, like the real is unreal but the unreal is unreal, no ghosts, what kind of world with ghosts and shadows and lurkers on threshholds and fears? See that’s the diff between me and Rheb she’s just sarcastic about it, holds a good world view, the alienated bebops besides the soaps and the clicks. None of which exists for me. I real right, ready to put the gods sto death. Say you’re not supposed to kill the god. kill the giant, kill the god, what say gov the congress.

There are three Pied Cow states for writers, the one we’re in the now, the middle state, and the Antwerp which we get up in night to write down, and the one we miss, we don’t get up and don’t even remember the Antwerp. In the time of Antwerp we know it as second nature, take for granted we know it, but after we write it down, like this statenent here, it seems a little commonplace, but it is the best we will get. The proof is the third Pied Cow state that denies the first exists. It goes without saying that the great sanity is sobriety, for Antwerp is quite fantastic enough in the normal natural attained by discipline and if tampered with by drugs, alcohol, disappears or is mutated. Antwerp is like the mind on pot, but instead of being insipid like pot, is deep and profound. Pied Cow I, the third state. Oley Mt in the orig is the first. There is a fourth state worse than Pied that is like enslavement, which is the constant reference to your phone messages  and there is  fifth where you are in a cult. A putative state above the first, above the booley antwerk of the called supernal, of which nothing is known, is like Blake, Boehme, etc., beneath which all the 5^th states subsist.  My narrative postion is like Dante passing through hell and observing not participating in it. He is not ecstatic but rational, even if his writing partakes of a style of absurdity, compression, affinity of reference, quotation which cannot help itself for there is a deeper state than the rational, the aesthetic, the value, which is the aim point in a style, the thing to reach, the perfect sentence.

But the journey starts in Antwerp. We just wake up there but are still asleep, just a little awake. We don’t know how we got there but we leave soon enough to the desk to write whatever we can of it. Then we stop. Collect, over and over these accounts until they form some pattersns, which we make them into, where things can be both symbol and fact, the girl in the white dress who speaks in tongues is real and a symbol of  desire to seakin tongues.

This overhearing of sounds is in language, mostly English. It can echo something read or seen in recent hours that will play forth in fieords of its recall.