The ole blog is back!
So as I alluded to in the last post, by googling my name I stumbled upon two shitty articles I wrote for Associated Content five years ago (paid $16) and embarrassed by them tried to figure out a way to have my name taken off them because it's the first thing people click on when they google john engelbrecht iowa city (as evidenced by my mother-in-law, why is she googling me?) and in the process of doing so I realize I had linked my AC profile to my ole blog Perfect Dwelling (the one I couldn't remember the name of and thought forever lost in the data ocean, only to find it is still out there intact, still stripped of its design, like I left it) and it actually contains some writing I kind of didn't hate upon reading again and so I bringing it back one post at a time starting from the end (well, second from end because I didn't like my goodbye speech).
(Also it should be noted the ole blog ended right when I began graduate school (it has some to do with the frustrations of getting in) and now I'm revisiting it just after finishing 3 threes later. As may be evidenced, my writing may have gotten worse in art school. anyway-)
Here you go EXCLAIMERS! meet DWELLERS!:
(Also it should be noted the ole blog ended right when I began graduate school (it has some to do with the frustrations of getting in) and now I'm revisiting it just after finishing 3 threes later. As may be evidenced, my writing may have gotten worse in art school. anyway-)
Here you go EXCLAIMERS! meet DWELLERS!:
Perfect Dwelling
sayonaraSunday, August 27, 2006
When In Comes Weather!
The day starts with loss. First I lose my dream, then my bed, and soon enough my dwelling and family. The losses continue throughout the days, weeks, years. They all peel apart to reveal layer upon layer of nothing upon nothing.
The sense to make sense of this is eventually lost but not before the frustration of language sets in. That's: The Frustration of Language as in the fuckin thing that makes our lives measurable and common. Common as in interchangeable parts. So when the FoL comes I know how little everything matters and feel bad for not feeling worse about not caring.
Are you still with me? It's a rhetorical mirrorical.
That's what I turned and said to myself in the mirror while the kids splashed and laughed and hit each other in the tub back there somewhere.
I said, "Are you still with me? Who are you?" and I raised my eyebrows for a while before answering and watching myself mouth: "Who are you? I'm still here!"
Alive in The FoL when in comes the weather. Pink slits in the sky and concrete walking blown up. The crisis of leaves and light echoing up and out. Sometimes you hear it coming like sleep, large and silent.
Sometimes.
The sense to make sense of this is eventually lost but not before the frustration of language sets in. That's: The Frustration of Language as in the fuckin thing that makes our lives measurable and common. Common as in interchangeable parts. So when the FoL comes I know how little everything matters and feel bad for not feeling worse about not caring.
Are you still with me? It's a rhetorical mirrorical.
That's what I turned and said to myself in the mirror while the kids splashed and laughed and hit each other in the tub back there somewhere.
I said, "Are you still with me? Who are you?" and I raised my eyebrows for a while before answering and watching myself mouth: "Who are you? I'm still here!"
Alive in The FoL when in comes the weather. Pink slits in the sky and concrete walking blown up. The crisis of leaves and light echoing up and out. Sometimes you hear it coming like sleep, large and silent.
Sometimes.
posted by John E at
5:46:00 PM
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