Bigsley the Oaf

The Rules of the Place

Posted in Uncategorized by bigsleytheoaf on August 12, 2012

I woke up this morning to a new poem in my inbox which reminded me that I am a well of infinite emptiness and well then I went to the cafe and got a croissant and a green tea and then I finished The Rum Diary in the park and sobbed.

I took a picture of the word FURY written in a box. I’m drinking Templeton Rye and the cat is snoring in a ball next to me. My keys are lying next to me, also.


The dogs won’t even look at you, here. Their eyes are fixed straight, they know what not to look at. The people shouldn’t look at you either and, if you want to exchange glances, well forget about it.

This city has placed walls everywhere, between the dreams of ours. We, our dreams, are smushed against each other messily – not woven into any sort of coherent harmonic pattern.

How rules operate, in this sort of context:

The accumulation of frictions between dreams, the noticing of the accumulation, the bubbling up into the Zeitgeist of these noticings, the accumulation of the noticings, the noticing of the accumulation -> the writing of editorials, the discussion of editorials in workplaces, the accumulation of these discussions and so on until the knowledge of small disturbances becomes a common-knowledge-froth. A city of sensitive young fools who are too afraid to step on toes becomes aware that there are literally toes everywhere which must be avoided at all costs. This whole internet thing being a great big tool for broadcasting the location of toes.

People used to drive drunk. People used to have sex without condoms. People used to laugh out loud in the streets. People used to shout at each other. People used to have sex in public. People used to smoke in bars. People used to rape. People used to murder.


In the park I saw two women with strollers and the two men tending the two children. The men were acting like boys, so carefree. It’s not that I hated them, exactly – it’s that I couldn’t even begin to empathize. Do you need to be a child to have a child? I no longer feel like a child, at all. I’m desperate for return. I felt the many walls between me and them.

I do feel like a Man. I identify as a Man. I worry about becoming homeless – that’s a Man thing to think. I’m no longer swaddled in children’s clothing, I no longer live in a comfortable womb. There is a real possibility of death, for me – of falling off the edge of the world – of complete and total alienation.

I don’t know anyone who identifies as a Man in this way. Maybe Graham. I don’t know what men think about being a man. I’ve read so much about what women are, who they are, what they feel like. Who are men?

Men have so many rules. Don’t kill. Don’t steal. Don’t rape. These are rules for women, but they don’t seem to constrain them as much. I’ve felt urges to kill, steal, and rape. I’ve been constrained by the rules.

Men need rules and war, yeah? That’s what everyone seems to believe, anyway.


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