notes on Cultural Anthropology 19.9.011

championed by Julian Steward; THE FUCK?!

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cultural ecology - philosophical idea applied to anth-

ropology; human cultural groups

adapt to an environment as a group

UNILINEAR EVOLUTION IS SHIT

only an hour has passed;
am I learning anything?
it's up to me to do so, up
to me to decide;

yet I'm writing sorts
of poetry-prose and

practicing my penmanship
and I'm drawing smokes
and cerebral neuropathways
in my notebook, my

Anthro-
pology
notebook

17.9.011

The great complexities of this world are not so complex; or rather, the complications of this world are not complications of the world, but rather are complications of man imposed upon the world. The world is vast, the world is whole; we men and women and children are but a part. We experience, we assign meaning and roles-- and, invariably, we die. And some of us attain peace. Man is of little consequence. Life is good. Death is not bad, though it causes sadness in Man.

"do something with this?" Seula 15.11.010

these avoidances, swerves in the road
it saved us pain, the decoction of your pulp, to swallow a sinkstone
pump
the break
unbolt and jump the sidewalk
counterweigh the scabsmear across your forehead
your turpitudinous pools
bloodbubbles swell,
blue,
from your nostrils
flares tattered

"did something with that" Jiva 23.09.011

mind's un-weight
bent, battered soliloquiescent concubine
beats, harps unharmed
unnamed
untamed in time, time, thyme
seasalt blues and age, age
for the malarkiest
overlord's oligarchy
an eye-- my breath garlicky--
fucking cracks your hotspittled
brain
in twain, in two
slick sips-- poor saps-- we slip
irreproachably, unapproachably further
into
our own glooms.

My Dreams, I Think...

I flunked out of the "pretty" competition
a long, long time ago.
I flunked my way out of every skin
I'd occupied or had thought
to-- and my system's
been run
ragged; it's
so, so tired
of regeneration.

I have nothing left in me;
nothing left for you to gawk at,
so I'll run riddles 'round your pretty head
instead; I'll run in circles
'til I trip myself up,
take a blow to my temple (is
that what my body
is?)
break my legs and absorb pavements both
hot, cold:

no
skin, no
lies left to live, no
spirits left to liven
the day or leaven a mood,
brighten the atmosphere of the room
you rejoice in,
which spins and turns
fasterfasterfasterfaster;
bastard, banal
fuck, nothing-person:

you don't even try anymore!
Malignance and apathy! a blight
from every pore, a pestilence with every parting of the lips--

the only sighs left are in
remembrance of half-lives
half-lived-- quartered and drawn/dissected
(maladjusted existence, no
benediction left in your diction-- no
thesaurus full
of fucking fakeflaking
fake fucking plasticwords,
styrene-swords; anticonvulsory carcino-eugenics blister
ev-er-y
punc-tu-al blasssstttt-ted syllable) hearts
lie, lay at the heart of your primary existence in
this

current state:

waiting for nothing, and
nothing
more
will come;

you, World, have gotten it all out of me.
Leave it, Dog.
Leave me be. (These asbestos-stuffed

sinuses

are or once were
my dreams, I think.)

Specter

I saw your ex-lover today.
Then I saw the mother of mine;
I turned tail; I looked away
both times.

I could not meet their eyes--
but I recognized his wiggle
from the backside;
red still blossomed about her nose,
so I looked down,
I ran away:
muttered to myself, I
smiled, and went on:

my insides boiled:
shame, rage:
I'm no longer at peace
today.

And I envy your ennui--
your glitter-dreams, and rotted teeth.
Lies decrepit, selfborne deceit:
you're the youth I never had.

child migraine, night-terror

my head is as small,
small as a q-tip dropped,
slopping burger commercial,
circus-blob biker woman
(oversapping lower lip),
dance around in paperdoll circles,
colored and uncolored for the nineties,
nightmare
no-wherenothing
void
void
void
white.

peace? or
repetition.

Is the smoke inside the mirror,
or is the mirror inside you?

And must we dance in triplets--
can we dance in pairs of two?

Must we all be soldiers, and
need we fight in all these wars?

And none of these dusty folders
have any data in their stores.

delete;
reprieve;
relief;
complete.

de-leaf;
perceive;
aggrieve;
no sleep.

No sleep.
No sleep.
No sleep:
Repeat.

Repeat,
always repeat.

(I) breathe DRAG-onsblood;
(SEE) my SIGnal fire?


I breathe dragonsblood;
see my signal-fire?
Feel irrational, and
tempt a serial liar.
Turn me on and I'll
set your funeral pyre.
Come into my head,
and we'll rise even higher.

In the darkest winters of my mind, I
know darkness never fought with light, and
I turn into the welcoming gloom as
a child to mother's and father's boon.

Here's the thing about me dating older men. I like it. I like the learnedness, the maturity-- but not the difference of experience and sense of superiority it can tend to bring to the relationship. That, and I am young: young enough and naive enough to still cling to the slowly-wilting belief that when we "grow up," we all become these perfect, balanced beings. We do not; age has only some bearing in the art of becoming centered and realizing our innate wholeness (and I'm a ways away, to put it delicately).

I don't feel quite like I connect with people. Not many people, anyways. And I used to ascribe that to problems with my age-group; I was in such solitude because I just didn't feel a spark during interaction with others my age; I got along better with adults.

I am also fortunate enough to have an unconditionally loving and supportive family (does it blow anyone else's mind that families who hold their children in a position of unconditional positive regard are in the minority?)-- and that, unfortunately, is still an issue for most people my age-- not to mention members of earlier generations.

But being stuck in the middle isn't quite so bad; with all that space between oneself and others, one doesn't so much shrivel as he blossoms, grows into the spaces between-- spaces which no one else can reach or even dream of.

Still, it's lonely here in the spaces between.