Shawn Huelle

untitled (and of knees)

and of knees blown out and callouses formed, the fingers don't do the work we thought they were meant to, but instead different, unexpected and important work. The fiddling the fiddle and the fiddler are none the wiser and not the same. The style we awakened, the wands drawn, the question and the statement of intent. The question and the statement of intent are no different, are very likely two aspects of the same thing. Wittgenstein's Tractatus Locigo-Philosophicus is written in seven parts. Seven is a "magic" number. The total number of statements in the Tractatus are somewhere--my memory for this kind of detail fails me--between 500 and 600. Earlier, I divided the actual number I can't quite remember now by seven and came up with 75. I wanted it to be exactly 78, and was surprised it was even as close as it was. A Google search for "Wittgenstein Tarot" revealed more than expected. The world is a great wiggly affair, and boxes are the mark of humanity. Everything is interconnected and, at the lowest (highest? perhaps the universe is recursive?) levels, nothing touches. A clean swamp out of which filth rises. A very thin layer of--a very thin film of everything--an onion skin with the pulp scraped off--translucent and palimpsestic--palimpseptic--shitty shitty and cheap. I cried while rocking my daughter to sleep, convinced I had behaved poorly all day, was a jerk all day. But how and to whom? Arrogant and too much to everybody. Me turned up to eleven. I cried while attempting to fall asleep too, and eventually went to my girlfriend for comfort. She scoffed at me. Scoffed and/or snorted. She scorfted. She escorfted me out of the building. And were he to be subpoenaed, would he appear? Would the whole thing turn into a purposefully drawn-out and unresesolveable legal circus? The man is heading towards 80. He will not see justice before his death and he will not see justice in death and his death will bring justice to no one. To exactly no one. And we will continue to blow out our cultural knees and limp forward to Bethlehem and apocalypse. I touched my balls and looked at the clock. Does/Can this really count as meditation, or is it me just entertaining my fragmented mind and calling it quiet? Entertaining the further fragmentation of . . . Wands out. Knives out. Staves out. Cocks out. Arms out. Just about a half a mile from town. Just about 70 miles east of here.