meaning in the moving design

i just found this in the midst of sorting files... it was a poem I wrote for a Dada and Surrealism class. Actually, this isn't the poem, this is part of a paper I wrote to explain the poem. I ran out of things to say about the stupid poem so in the midst of some academic bullshitting, I started ranting about a midget and a goat... which has actually become a prevailing surrealist theme in my life. Even after all these years, I can still tell which parts are obviously contrived... I bet you can too. I don't know why I'm putting this up, I was just like "oh yeah! the midget and the goat! I remember that!". i think it's just an excuse to go on some rant about random order... so maybe you should skip the poem and go straight to the end part.

In more inopportune times, there would only be the goat to thank, but thankfully, it didn’t appear that sanity was bleeding. Horribly disfigured, perhaps, but in essence, I always presumed him to be anarchic in his depiction of the modern burlesque. For the more feeble-minded, an itinerary of degradation would be in order for the convalescence of dear Samson, whose little midget body has suffered the worst slings and arrows of insults. I never realized the extent of his pain- I was bleeding, after all. And it didn’t seem to matter that the clock was ticking backwards, or that the elevator failed to elevate me. Something was missing. It wouldn’t have occurred to me otherwise, but I happened to be sitting at the time. So I grabbed the little midget by the arms (not realizing that the limbs had become autonomous to what was left of the body). I shook it violently and I said “I renounce sanity! Madness is real! To be mad is to be natural!” It was more than she could bear, but I was compelled to do it. For my own part, I had none. Someone had already taken the ferris wheel to the rodeo, had already drawn the superfluous nipple on the Venus, had already bit and barked at the Pope while he drove away in his golf cart. All I could do was applaud the fact that it was funny.

... it occurs to me that I've always loved writing this way. all equisite corpsy-like and autonomation styles. It's why I love fridge poetry too. it's so nice not to have to make sense. Or to make sense in a really nonsensical way. All my fridge poetry makes perfect sense, it just makes it's point via a dizzyingly circuitous path. Here's my theory:

Fridge Poetry is like Vipassina Meditation.
and furthermore...
Vipassina Meditation is like having a box over your head. (stay with me, here). You are confined by a very specific and somewhat arbitrary set of rules; you have very finite limits and you learn to function within the confines of these limitations, this box. You learn to be happy with a little. So that, when you remove the box, you can truly appreciate the space around you, and use it to its fullest potential.
Fridge Poetry is the same- you have a finite set of words, you learn how to use them wisely, in ways they are not intended to be used, but in the end, they work. They more than work. They say more things in the wrong places than they would if used conventionally.

Ipso facto ergo.... Anita knows how to make a beautiful mess of things.

The bus is rolling like a ship. I have my tunes turned up high and I am happy to stare out at my window-sized world, blissfully lobotomized. Neko Case is crooning in my ear, the sexiest song ever made, and you'll be in my arms tonight, there's no need to cry...

I'm on the East Coast highway. The road snakes up, down and sometimes through the mountains in dizzying hairpin turns before flattening out to hug the ocean. Beyond the guardrail, the earth just falls away, and I find myself staring down into the crevice of two massive cliffs, hundreds of meters high.

All along the coast, there are B&Bs and boutique hotels. and remnants of once-weres. scraped out cement towers, abandoned to the elements. a squatter's paradise. The zoning laws here are either non-existent or meant to ridicule the rich. Large, 3-storey mansions and industrial factories practically sit side by side, plumes of smoke kiss the sunlit balconies a throaty good morning.

Construction materials line the coast- blocks of cement cut out in strange shapes, abandoned on the shoreline. They're not ugly, just a little curious-looking. some look like push pins, some like letters spelling out a secret message. The ocean's Golden Voyager...

I scan the internet for a couch and I find one. I meet a South African man from Capetown. We share a 7-11 beer over talk about apartheid, rebellion, armed revolution, Castro, Palestine, Tibet. And I think to myself, yeah, this must be why we're all here. So we can sit around and talk about home in a way we can't when we're there. So we can hear all about the exotic corners of the world, with the familiarity, love and longing etched into the voice of the storyteller. so we can shake out all the gold in our lives as we marvel at someone else's stash, and collectively give thanks.

I'm back where I started. I've written this before. many years ago.

Tired of job hunting?
Stressed about money?
Frustrated by Whitey McWhiterton fetishization in Asia?

Well, YARRR me gots a cure for what ails ya:
1. Go to a small deserted island
2. Rent a scooter
3. DRIVE REAL FAST
3a. If it's pissing rain, drive as fast as the rain is falling
3b. If it's open road, drive as fast as your trigger-happy accelerator hand can crank it
4. Get off your scooter once in a while to a) go diving b) sit in a hotspring c) eat
fresh sushi

ahhhh....

Ok. So the job scene so far is frustrating, racist and sketchy. So I decided I needed a vacation. I'm on Green Island, for a much-needed recharge from the job hunt. Not that it was easy getting here... You know that scene in The Simpsons (which was probably referencing some other thing), where all the babies ate too much candy and theyre all laid out on a big field, moaning in pain? Kay, imagine that, but at the tailend of a ferry ride across the stormy seas. I think I might have been one of a small handful of people who did not spend the hour-long journey puking into a bag or bucket. It was... grim. but also kinda funny. I think I survived solely out of mental disipline. I talked myself through it, my mantra was "be like the wave... just roll, dont hold back... be like the wave". and it worked! Im a freakin genius.


This place is gorgeous. Flanked by mountains on one side and the open coast on the other, everything is a colour and size that my camera just isn't capable of documenting. The East Coast of Taiwan is all like this. It's all about depth, and scale and contrast. The coral here is blacklit underwater, and all the fish are splish-splashed in dayglo neon. The roads cut through giant cliffs, massive rock towers perched along the jagged coastline. In the interior is just bush- sprawling green junglified overgrowth, with wild deer and wirey little lizards abound. And a white ibus named Mort. The food here is amazing! FRESH SASHIMI! I've met some folks who have lived in Taiwan for 5 years say that it's the best they've had on the whole island. My favourite meal was "Bomb the Flying Fish", naturally because of it's rock awesome name. That was listed between "Bomb the sweet potato" and "Bomb the green silk". [punchline- "bomb" in Chinese is the same word as "fried"]. The weather has been less than perfect (3 weeks in this bloody country and Ive had exactly 3 days of sunshine...), but the fog seems part and parcel with the scenery, so s'all good.

Oh yeah! And here's a coffee shop I went to today


The island has a prison on it, so maybe they thought the whole jail motif would bring more ambience to the cafe.... [chortle]

I know, I know, everyone wants to know about all that serious working stuff. I'll get to that when Im good n ready...
Onwards, onwards. This is my path.