Tom H. Brooks 3
By Tom H. Brooks 3
Date: Friday, January 7, 2011, 8:13 PM
you this dispatch. After blundering aimlessly through the numbing
cold, I have finally found an old, obsolete computer on which to
write. I am at a tiny, dusty cafe enjoying a cup of green tea and a
riceball in a small Japanese farming town that shall remain nameless.
Everything around me is blanketed in a thick layer of deep winter
IT IS A BOUNDLESS COLD AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD.
I am in the remote mountains of northern Nagano prefecture. I am
now living in the hollowed-out base of a giant and ancient Zelkova
tree in a shelter of my own design. It is warm and cozy, however,
lacking in modern conveniences. I have spent the last month of this
winter chopping firewood and digging for edible roots and berries. I
hunt for rabbits and the occassional fat pheasant. I am clothed in
many layers and the skin of a giant bear I slaughtered myself, not by
choice…it was him or me. He lost. I have a long, graying beard. I
am a hermit and I survive the blistering cold by sheer willpower. On
the rare warmer days, I fish on the rocky banks of the winding
Asahikawa-あさひかわ….(the Sunrise River). I am sometimes lucky enough
to catch a shiny, silver salmon.
In the cold nights, I sit in my little hobbit hole reading Burton’s
translation of “1001 Arabian Nights” by firelight. Of all things to
be reading…yes?!? I dream of the burning Saharan sands, camels,
oases, veiled and dark-eyed dancing girls, incenses and oils….but
then I wake up in the hollow base of a tree with the freezing wind
howling like a banshee outside. It seems there is no end to the snow.
I wait for signs of spring; snow melting, a warmer wind, migratory
birds returning, cherry blossoms…time will tell. Only the strong
Wishing you all the best, from the summit of MY mountain; your friend,
Tom H. Brooks 3
By Tom H. Brooks 3
“ALL POEMS ARE OCCASIONAL, THE PRODUCTS OF CIRCUMSTANCE.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“EVERY POEM IS A RESPONSE TO AN EXTERIOR OR INTERIOR STIMULUS. THE CIRCUMSTANCE IS THAT WHICH SURROUNDS US AND WHICH, WHETHER AS OBSTACLE OR SPUR, IS THE ORIGIN OF THE POEM, THE ACCIDENT THAT PROVOKES ITS APPEARANCE. BUT THE CIRCUMSTANCES ARE NEITHER EXPLANATIONS NOR SUBSTITUTES FOR THE POEMS, THEY ARE AUTONOMOUS REALITIES. POEMS ARE BORN FROM A CIRCUMSTANCE AND YET, AS SOON AS THEY ARE BORN, THEY FREE THEMSELVES AND TAKE ON A LIFE OF THEIR OWN.”
Truer words have never been spoken…..THB3
By Tom H. Brooks 3
Digital Desolation is the title of the above work…..
Well, there you have it; fourteen years of insanity stuffed into one month for your reading pleasure.
By now, I have probably successfully offended everyone with insults, vulgarity, and blatant generalizations. I`m sorry (but not THAT sorry). If nothing else, these STREET JOURNALS are honest, and you can`t ask for much more than that. They reflect the trials and tribulations, the highs and the lows, the endless variances of one man`s crazy life…MINE. I have given you a piece of myself, but there is so much more that lies beneath the surface.
Hopefully, these STREET JOURNALS have, at times, also touched your heart and soul with their brute, in-your-face reality AND fantasy. If you`re confused with what I`m speaking of here, or you started reading in the middle of the series, I suggest you go to my website blog homepage and start with the very first one in the archives, THE LA JOURNAL. Start reading from the beginning and it will all start to make sense.
Last year, I realized once and for all that THE STREET JOURNALS are not likely to ever be published in any type of print. They are too wild, random, and unpredictable. It`s comparable to when a famous dead writer has his/her letters published – it`s only because he was ALREADY famous. And I am NOT famous, nor am I published. So I simply decided to put it out there myself for all who may be interested. And now it`s yours to love or to hate. That, of course, is your decision…
From here on out, we are in the present day for me. I am going about my life in Japan. Things are not as crazy as they used to be, but they are perhaps crazy in a new and refreshing way.
And here, I have to take a moment to say one thing. All my irritation and complaints about this country where I now dwell; they are all starting to fade away. I am starting to adjust….FINALLY. This country has been good to me. Japan has been nothing less than a fascinating experience that continues to surprise me in new ways everyday. I have spent most of my time here writing, taking photos, and creating new things, in general. I would have never found time for this in the chaos of my life back in America. It has been the proverbial “blessing in disguise.”
I will soon follow up with my poems that I have been writing all throughout my life under many different conditions and in many different places. I will continue to share my photographs with you. And whenever a new STREET JOURNAL is completed, I will publish that as well. I am in the midst of #75 as I write this. I will continue to write until the day I die…because I HAVE TO. It cannot be stopped. And why would I want to stop anyway?!?
Thank you very much for reading along with me this far, those of you who have or continue to do so. I hope I have given you something special, something different that you will NOT forget. And to any new readers, welcome to my world. Life goes on for all of us, my friends. Let`s stand up and live it the best that we can. Peace and love to all…
Tom Henry Brooks 3
March 9, 2014
By Tom H. Brooks 3
I would like you to meet STREET JOURNAL 74…
Yes, it`s true……..
alone on a hill
The Angels don’t like being called losers, but they have learned to live with it. “Yeah, I guess I am,” said one. “But you’re looking at one loser who’s going to make a hell of a scene on the way out.”
“Those who do not learn from the lessons of history are doomed to repeat the same mistakes again and again.”
“The Circular Ruins
And if he left off dreaming about you … ?Through the Looking-Glass, VI
No one saw him slip from the boat in the unanimous night, no one saw the bamboo canoe as it sank into the sacred mud, and yet within days there was no one who did not know that the taciturn man had come there from the South, and that his homeland was one of those infinite villages that lie up-river, on the violent flank of the mountain, where the language of the Zend is uncontaminated by Greek and where leprosy is uncommon. But in fact the gray man had kissed the mud, scrambled up the steep bank (without pushing back, probably without even feeling, the sharp-leaved bulrushes that slashed his flesh), and dragged himself, faint and bloody, to the circular enclosure, crowned by the stone figure of a horse or tiger, which had once been the color of fire but was now the color of ashes. That ring was a temple devoured by an ancient holocaust;
now, the malarial jungle had profaned it and its god went unhonored by mankind. The foreigner lay down at the foot of the pedestal.
He was awakened by the sun high in the sky. He examined his wounds and saw, without astonishment, that they had healed; he closed his pale eyes and slept, not out of any weakness of the flesh but out of willed determination. He knew that this temple was the place that his unconquerable plan called for; he knew that the unrelenting trees had not succeeded in strangling the ruins of another promising temple downriver—like this one, a temple to dead, incinerated gods; he knew that his immediate obligation was to sleep. Aboutmidnight he was awakened by the inconsolable cry of a bird. Prints of unshod feet, a few figs, and a jug of water told him that the men of the region had respectfully spied upon his sleep and that they sought his favor, or feared his magic. He felt the coldness of fear, and he sought out a tomblike niche in the crumbling wall, where he covered himself with unknown leaves.
The goal that led him on was not impossible,
though it was clearly supernatural: He wanted to dream a man. He wanted to dream him completely, in painstaking detail, and impose him upon reality. This magical objective had come to fill his entire soul; if someone had asked him his own name, or inquired into any feature of his life till then, he would not have been able to answer. The uninhabited and crumbling temple suited him, for it was a minimum of visible world; so did the proximity of the woodcutters, for they saw to his frugal needs. The rice and fruit of their tribute were nourishment enough for his body, which was consecrated to the sole task of sleeping and dreaming.
At first, his dreams were chaotic; a little later, they became dialectical. The foreigner dreamed that he was in the center of a circular amphitheater, which was somehow the ruined temple; clouds of taciturn students completely filled the terraces of seats. The faces of those farthest away hung at many centuries’ distance and at a cosmic height, yet they were absolutely clear. The man lectured on anatomy,
cosmography, magic; the faces listened earnestly, intently, and attempted to respond with understanding—as though they sensed the importance of that education that would redeem one of them from his state of hollow appearance and insert him into the real world. The man, both in sleep and when awake, pondered his phantasms’ answers; he did not allow himself to be taken in by impostors, and he sensed in certain perplexities a growing intelligence. He was seeking a soul worthy of taking its place in the universe.
On the ninth or tenth night, he realized (with some bitterness) that nothing could be expected from those students who passively accepted his teachings, but only from those who might occasionally, in a reasonable way, venture an objection. The first—the accepting—though worthy of affection and a degree of sympathy, would never emerge as individuals; the latter— those who sometimes questioned—had a bit more préexistence. One afternoon (afternoons now paid their tribute to sleep as well; now the man was awake no more than two or three
hours around daybreak) he dismissed the vast illusory classroom once and for all and retained but a single pupil—a taciturn, sallow-skinned young man, at times intractable, with sharp features that echoed those of the man that dreamed him. The pupil was not disconcerted for long by the elimination of his classmates; after only a few of the private classes, his progress amazed his teacher. Yet disaster would not be forestalled. One day the man emerged from sleep as though from a viscous desert, looked up at the hollow light of the evening (which for a moment he confused with the light of dawn), and realized that he had not dreamed. All that night and the next day, the unbearable lucidity of insomnia harried him, like a hawk. He went off to explore the jungle, hoping to tire himself; among the hemlocks he managed no more than a few intervals of feeble sleep, fleetingly veined with the most rudimentary of visions—useless to him. He reconvened his class, but no sooner had he spoken a few brief words of exhortation than the faces blurred, twisted, and faded away.
In his almost perpetual state of wakefulness, tears of anger burned the man’s old eyes.
He understood that the task of molding the incoherent and dizzying stuff that dreams are made of is the most difficult work a man can undertake, even if he fathom all the enigmas of the higher and lower spheres— much more difficult than weaving a rope of sand or minting coins of the faceless wind. He understood that initial failure was inevitable. He swore to put behind him the vast hallucination that at first had drawn him off the track, and he sought another way to approach his task. Before he began, he devoted a month to recovering the strength his delirium had squandered. He abandoned all premeditation of dreaming, and almost instantly managed to sleep for a fair portion of the day. The few times he did dream during this period, he did not focus on his dreams; he would wait to take up his task again until the disk of the moon was whole. Then, that evening, he purified himself in the waters of the river, bowed down to the planetary gods, uttered those syllables of a powerful name that
it is lawful to pronounce, and laid himself down to sleep. Almost immediately he dreamed a beating heart.
He dreamed the heart warm, active, secret— about the size of a closed fist, a garnet-colored thing inside the dimness of a human body that was still faceless and sexless; he dreamed it, with painstaking love, for fourteen brilliant nights. Each night he perceived it with greater clarity, greater certainty. He did not touch it; he only witnessed it, observed it, corrected it, perhaps, with his eyes. He perceived it, he lived it, from many angles, many distances. On the fourteenth night, he stroked the pulmonary artery with his forefinger, and then the entire heart, inside and out. And his inspection made him proud. He deliberately did not sleep the next night; then he took up the heart again, invoked the name of a planet, and set about dreaming another of the major organs. Before the year was out he had reached the skeleton, the eyelids.
The countless hairs of the body were perhaps the most difficult task. The man had dreamed a
fully fleshed man—a stripling—but this youth did not stand up or speak, nor could it open its eyes. Night after night, the man dreamed the youth asleep.
In the cosmogonies of the Gnostics, the demiurges knead up a red Adam who cannot manage to stand; as rude and inept and elementary as that Adam of dust was the Adam of dream wrought from the sorcerer’s nights. One afternoon, the man almost destroyed his creation, but he could not bring himself to do it. (He’d have been better off if he had.) After making vows to all the deities of the earth and the river, he threw himself at the feet of the idol that was perhaps a tiger or perhaps a colt, and he begged for its untried aid. That evening, at sunset, the statue filled his dreams. In the dream it was alive, and trembling—yet it was not the dread-inspiring hybrid form of horse and tiger it had been. It was, instead, those two vehement creatures plus bull, and rose, and tempest, too—and all that, simultaneously. The manifold god revealed to the man that its earthly name was Fire, and that in that circular
temple (and others like it) men had made sacrifices and worshiped it, and that it would magically bring to life the phantasm the man had dreamed—so fully bring him to life that every creature, save Fire itself and the man who dreamed him, would take him for a man of flesh and blood. Fire ordered the dreamer to send the youth, once instructed in the rites, to that other ruined temple whose pyramids still stood downriver, so that a voice might glorify the god in that deserted place. In the dreaming man’s dream, the dreamed man awoke.
The sorcerer carried out Fire’s instructions. He consecrated a period of time (which in the end encompassed two full years) to revealing to the youth the arcana of the universe and the secrets of the cult of Fire. Deep inside, it grieved the man to separate himself from his creation. Under the pretext of pedagogical necessity, he drew out the hours of sleep more every day. He also redid the right shoulder (which was perhaps defective). From time to time, he was disturbed by a sense that all this had happened before——-His days were, in general, happy;
when he closed his eyes, he would thinkNow I will be with my son. Or, less frequently, The son I have engendered is waiting for me, and he will not exist if I do not go to him.
Gradually, the man accustomed the youth to reality. Once he ordered him to set a flag on a distant mountaintop. The next day, the flag crackled on the summit. He attempted other, similar experiments—each more daring than the last. He saw with some bitterness that his son was ready— perhaps even impatient—to be born. That night he kissed him for the first time, then sent him off, through many leagues of impenetrable jungle, many leagues of swamp, to that other temple whose ruins bleached in the sun downstream. But first (so that the son would never know that he was a phantasm, so that he would believe himself to be a man like other men) the man infused in him a total lack of memory of his years of education.
The man’s victory, and his peace, were dulled by the wearisome sameness of his days. In the twilight hours of dusk and dawn, he would prostrate himself before the stone figure,
imagining perhaps that his unreal son performed identical rituals in other circular ruins, downstream. At night he did not dream, or dreamed the dreams that all men dream. His perceptions of the universe’s sounds and shapes were somewhat pale: the absent son was nourished by those diminutions of his soul. His life’s goal had been accomplished; the man lived on now in a sort of ecstasy. After a period of time (which some tellers of the story choose to compute in years, others in decades), two rowers woke the man at midnight. He could not see their faces, but they told him of a magical man in a temple in the North, a man who could walk on fire and not be burned.
The sorcerer suddenly remembered the god’s words. He remembered that of all the creatures on the earth, Fire was the only one who knew that his son was a phantasm. That recollection, comforting at first, soon came to torment him. He feared that his son would meditate upon his unnatural privilege and somehow discover that he was a mere simulacrum. To be not a man, but the projection of another man’s dream—
what incomparable humiliation, what vertigo! Every parent feels concern for the children he has procreated (or allowed to be procreated) in happiness or in mere confusion; it was only natural that the sorcerer should fear for the future of the son he had conceived organ by organ, feature by feature, through a thousand and one secret nights.
The end of his meditations came suddenly, but it had been foretold by certain signs: first (after a long drought), a distant cloud, as light as a bird, upon a mountaintop; then, toward the South, the sky the pinkish color of a leopard’s gums; then the clouds of smoke that rusted the iron of the nights; then, at last, the panicked flight of the animals—for that which had occurred hundreds of years ago was being repeated now. The ruins of the sanctuary of the god of Fire were destroyed by fire. In the birdless dawn, the sorcerer watched the concentric holocaust close in upon the walls. For a moment he thought of taking refuge in the water, but then he realized that death would be a crown upon his age and absolve him from his
labors. He walked into the tatters of flame, but they did not bite his flesh—they caressed him, bathed him without heat and without combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he realized that he, too, was but appearance, that another man was dreaming him.”
Jorge Luis Borges
“I, myself, alone, have more memories than all mankind since the world began,” he said to me. And also: “My dreams are like other people’s waking hours.” And again, toward dawn: “My memory, sir, is like a garbage heap.”
I am the anonymous mask
By Tom H. Brooks 3
And this is STREET JOURNAL 73
The above is my digital artwork named
The Mechanics of Abstraction…