The People Called Endless

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(9)   The heart interviews and other views, from The People Called Endless

I more like it’s my heart, her heart, mine, mine, my heart hers, his heart, my heart, hers hers hers, her heart, mine mine mine my heart, theirs, ours, hers, mine, mine, my heart for all of our weekend, then my long long nights after ours. Mine my long morning ours scratching my head after ours. It’s hers, hers, her heart, my heart mine after our coffee, just after her place of my no-where (which I couldn’t get out of all last week; funny not to be able to get out of nowhere). And fast. And jerry-built. And janky. It’s his during our gunky phone call, mine after our long long distance hauling my gunk around, mine after what the wind reminds me of, especially if I’m ribbed up right, and it’s raining, and if I’m off her hook, not rubbed their wrong way like the sharks scaled scared, like is happening now to my heart when you put us that way. It’s mine after that last long look you gave me. Ours as I pay our ours bill. His when his comes to two-way mirrors, hers when she rainbows right, his in glitter mountains which our feet spread endless, hers when their song comes on for sure, every time our damn song comes on. Mine when my phantom-words after-image my heart endless this way for sure. It’s mine on our clothesline closing down ours, shutting-down our his, closing our ours off, closing her ours, hers after, and during his closing. During his closing it’s his. Then his his is ours of course, and is ours at our long bar drinking, mine mine mine my next morning closing in when I can’t get her off of my mind.  Mine wishing I had my lucky extra door-knob to take my heart’s brain out and run mine under our cold cold hard water in what was our our sink. It’s mine his, hers mine, hers mine, back here doing his our this my our way, doing that, doing this this and this, especially doing her this with doorknob-know-how, and endless. It’s always so endless.

I’d say, come-on interviewer person, don’t heart moron me so much, haven’t you ever refracted before, or are you only a reflector? Haven’t you ever turned yourself into a prism? Haven’t you let something go in and come out the other side and rainbow, rainbow, rainbow, and then let the fish go? Quit taking all your reflections so seriously.

I’d say why thank you for asking, now go away.

I’d say, of course the road less traveled is also the wrong road to take. There is no cruddy road. There is only stone, stone, tree tree tree, tree bush, stone, stone, stone, tree, tree, branch, grasshopper, grasshopper, grasshopper, soil, pore space, pore space, pore space, grasshopper, branch, trig twig twig if you look closely, grasshopper, grasshopper, fly, fly, fly worm, worm, worm part, ant ant ant ant, worm part pulling the leaf in backwards, the leaf tip first, tick tick, ticks can go 18 years without eating, mushroom, mushroom, sky, sky, mushroom you moron, mushroom.

I’d say, when did we start getting so lazy at alive.

I’d say the middle is never halfway.

I’d say I ran out of slobber first.

I’d say the poets mostly have only one liners and deadlines.

I’d say in this interview if you insist on standing from some Jupiter, from some one big spot you’ve found for looking for everything including the heart, then sure. But it’s more like see the floaters in the eye while looking at the stars. Because if you stand over here under this tree in Kentucky next to her for what feels like forever looking at some Jupiter Jupitering together every night, or at least into something endless every night, while seeing the floaters suspended in vitreous humor casting shadows on your retinas, then you’ll start to turtle eye the slow truth. You’ll see the turtle truth on the smaller turtle truth on the smaller turtle truth incorrigibly turtling turtle fractal turtle truths totaling only turtles from her turtle to the turtles here to her Jupiter turtle parts, so there, so there too, so there too is your hear too.

I’d say before we go there we need to take the hard heart time to invent a pair of telescopic microscopic prescription glasses just for this interview question because it’s a big small question. So we need to take a bit of interview glasses making time just for us, just for this us, for this one time while we’re us like this us now, for this interview time, for this moment in the sun, and  from the point of view of the bacteria and the bull-frog and the ice-berg and the sky and the limpet and the knuckle balls and the sticklebacks and the thrummers and the eye you’re giving me at the same time. And then we have to use that view to focus on seeing through other interview questions. And when done, and we’ll never be done even though it’s sure to end, we need to throw those one time us glasses into a volcano in our Iceland without telling anyone so no one can watch and clap for us.

I’d say, probably so, but maybe not with the people you hang out and heart with. You should hang out and heart for a few seconds with the people called Endless. You’ll feel different. You won’t even remember what you wanted to know so bad it hurt.

I’d say, well, definitely the maybe part is true.

I’d say I should have worn my double-sided heart-tape t-shirt today so that everything sticks to me better, because you make me sound so smooth it soothes me into starting to suck.

I would either say, how dare you, but thank you for daring to. Or, would you please repeat your dare again but louder this time and longer, because last time it inspired me so much I forgot to get bored by the un-important things.  I love forgetting to get bored. Or, I would say, by the way you didn’t say her her, her his, his mine, my ours, my hers, my my, ours ours ours ours ours, I know you’re just pumping out our our version as a Brave New Boring World our by our our. You are too good at the boring part-so good I almost didn’t see it. In fact I didn’t see it, I felt it. Our hour was only yours. You can’t fake the feelings you don’t cause me to have. So please stop being so good at the boring parts please. Please use your feelers better. Can’t we pass a law that life-time sentences people for boring someone to death? That would be a dare of course. I’d say, I dare you to once more from near here my dear.

I’d say why not why factory better, because the why’s always find their way through the window screens set up to keep the why’s away from the heart. But why’s always seem to find a way into the heart. And I hope we would then turn the one hour interview into a four day long road trip. It will be so intense that we’ll both think about throwing everything in our previous lives away just to go there, just once,  just because we have to, just because we have no choice, because we’ll never have another chance at feeling like this like this. So we’ll spend our all our day and our all night and our all day and our all night and our all day and our all night and our all day and our all night talking about all our little personal window-screens we design, all our bullet-proof heart glass for the neighborhoods of bad feelings, all the shitty retractable stanchions which we zig-zag through each day to passport control the belted lines to reach our heart much longer. We’ll talk about all our anti-stay there devices, like our anti-homeless benches in LA which spray homeless people that use them every 30 minutes at night to coerce them to homeless somewhere else. We’ll talk about our high-decibel anti-heart-hang out devices which our cities play over speakers on our corners where they don’t want kids to hang out, because kids can hear high-pitched frequencies which adults don’t have the ears for adding up; how it makes the kids leave even though they don’t quite know why. And we’ll go on and on about all the why window  screens which let the light in, and breeze, and atmosphere. And we’ll fall into a kind of deep keen why transient endless road trip trance, as the why not heart door-knobs the time and when we we squeeze out through the smallest we window screen holes we can dream of we’ll know all that out there is us too.

I’d try not to interview say, the way you’re asking answers for me. It implies a spitty collusion between her and her and him and her and her and him and them and us over there too. And any way I answer makes us guilty because all our answers to that question affirm the question and deny contradiction. Preserving contradiction doesn’t necessarily preserve difference, but it’s close. It’s like Quintilian said 2000 years ago when he wrote about rhetoric tricks after he wrote On the Causes of Corrupted Eloquence.

I’d say I need my ghosts to see by. Like him and her and her and her and those ghosts over there. I’d say my ghosts are as real as the ghosts you don’t see.

I’d say I’ve learned about an endless number of ways to think about it as you can see, and I stopped thinking about it the way you’re asking me around the 16^th time I thought about it, when I was around 16. Except that rut in the 90’s when I fell back into that mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine turbulence, and got so mental I was spiraling endless. But then I haven’t thought of it that way since, until now; thanks a lot you back-wards mine all mine mental time-mine-machine.

I’d say I have known her her her him her, always her (always her), but that was about 3000 stories ago. And since then I’ve storied with people like him in Kentucky, and him in Kentucky, and her in Kentucky with the dog, and her in Chicago, and her near here in Berlin, and her in New York, and her in New York, and us over there Virginianing together, and Eugening, and Annalopising Annapolis, and her in Philadelphia for so long now New York for example, or a small part of it, for example. For example, we went there for so long. And so long went by so quickly. And I’d say most of those stories come with tons and tons of tubes of heart glue, heart glue to glue all the endless heres together. And I just decided at some point I have to practice practice my kind of story mine make. I have no choice but to my kind of story mine make. And because I my kind of story mine make, I our our kind of story mine make too, which has nothing to do with you, and less to do with her, and everything to do with here, all of the heres, because I our long story mine make every time I’m here. I heart my story mine make. I always heart my story mine here.

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(10)   In the opening we heart here

In the opening we heart more magic, heart here more, heart like an upturned flame from here. We heart like an upturned flame. In this part we try to guess the hearts weight, pick the little prize, your eyes put tips into my jar. In this part the heart offers glue, but it’s crazy-glue, and even though everyone knows crazy-heart-glue is the strongest kind, it’s still hard to trust the little bit that makes the heart stick to the beam, the drop that allows such big crazy things hanging over our heads saying thousands of pounds thousands of things stick. Hanging-on is still a bit of big heart problem, a central theme after the intro that starts to feel a bit too endless. The first endless part ends as I try shaking the body to hear if there’s a heart inside; it’s still hard to tell. Hard as hell.

How would you describe the missing heart, the heart sketch artist asks the lead heart in this scene? We’ll, my heart said, I didn’t get a good look at the heart, was nervous you know, put in a heart situation like that so quickly, so unexpectedly, so just doing my own heart thing. I was heart young and heady, thought I was heart older and here experienced. So I didn’t get a good look at her heart here, but it’s not my fault. You shouldn’t say it’s my fault! I mean who can prepare for something like heart to happen? I mean, you tell yourself over and over again, if the heart happens this way then this, if the heart happens this way than this, or this, or this. So really, when the heart burst in on me like that and got heart slobber all over me, what else could I do but get onto my knees and beg for my heart’s chance chance endless.

This part leads to the part where the lead heart-rates Rocky, like Rocky, Balboa. The boa heart beats the crap out of everything big, catches the back-yard chicken with two hands and heart, takes the steps in threes, does the 10 seconds flat after five raw-being eggs, fingers the caged bird awkwardly, has no pads over the south paw speech problem impediments while in the ice-box boxing the future dead meats whose hearts have been eaten. Makes the dead-meat shit-kicking heart come-backs interesting exactly because the heart goes on way too long. Every heart understands the goes on way too long. The intro lasts first few minutes followed by two hours of ending. But your chirr sure cheered me up. Every heart suffer dreams of the come back, the sequel, the second-chance non-ending.

In this scenic part the heart is sitting on the high-school bleachers reunioning the high-school joke as long as you’ll heart listen fall for it. There are 5 hearts on the one heart track. The starting gun fires. The first heart gets ahead first, takes the lead. The third heart catches up. Maybe it’s just the track; the curves make it hard to tell which heart has the starting heart advantage. Then the fifth heart passes the fourth heart. The fourth heart hears the third heart coming from behind and gets heady. It gets hairy, until the fourth heart pulls ahead. The first heart is neck and neck with the second heart, while the third heart looks heavy and hopeless, which doesn’t matter because of the third heart’s heart, because the third hearts all heart, heart’s all the way all the time. The fourth heart passes the third heart, but then the fourth heart starts to head home because it’s still in fourth. But it was a fake out, a take the bait bait-taker. But then the third heart and the first heart slow down, slow slow down, and the fourth heart races races ahead, a sprinter of impossible speeds. It starts getting confusing because the slowest heart might be the best place to be. Then the second heart passes the fifth heart if last place is actually first place. And the first heart passes the third heart. And the third heart passes the first heart. And the first heart passes the third heart. And the second heart passes the third heart, but the third heart is storing up its energy, slowing down, pulling away, coming back, passing by, passing out, passed up, passes the first heart in the first lane even though there are no more lanes, just track, just track, just track. Tracking tracking tracking. The fourth heart sprains its ankle, shouldn’t have been running in high-heels, not proper for poulaines unless whalebones are used or electric guitar strings; the heart shouldn’t have aortic arched so highly. The third hear passes the first heart. The second heart is coming from behind. The first heart gets nervous, falls back, tries the drag strategy, the sling-shot me ahead in the tail-wind like in race car movies with cruise. The third heart passes the first heart. The first heart passes the third heart. The first heart passes the third heart. The first heart passes the third heart. The first heart. The third heart. The first heart. The first heart. The first heart. The first heart.  And on and on until the first listener understands there is no end to the heart joke, the heart joke is endless. The heart joke is how long you listen to the heart joke. Still, there’s something so nice about falling for listening, the heart says at the end of the scene, all heart, all in love. I fall for the heart joke every time, the lead says. I fall for the heart joke every time.

[This heart scene has been cut, lost, edited, suffers anamnesis, amnesia, was traded in the hearttrade show, limps around forgetting it’s last name which led to a heart shot which would have turned the heady audience off, killed the ratings graphic, even though it wanted to kill the ratings kill the ratings.]

So this scene feels a little out of place, which makes it feel like it really feels, which makes it more believable, so the cut turns out to have been right. This cut’s to the heart making the get-away start, scott-free and skin of the dog, paradoxes the twin: one heart shows up younger so the scientists conclude Einstein right, conclude one heart must have been light-speeding like one stone says.  Everyone cries, it’s so touching.

Here the heart knife-tricks supernatural, butter-fly heart knives, switch-blades desperate despite the hidden door, actually wants to untiger the tiger trapped under the false floor right in front of the heart, as it sleeves it’s heart right out in the open, right in front of all the other hearts. The heart pulls coins out of the other heart’s ears, shades the poke, heart palms you endless, keeps the pit-falls to make more lovely grand heart canyons. But the heart doesn’t know what to do with coins once it has them. Just another things the heart collects which the heart can’t use, and the scene ends.

Here the heart turns into a bird Here the heart changes the scarf’s color.  Here the heart guesses the card you choose by chanceHere the heart tells you to get out of that suit pronto, let’s ball in the corner, not sleight our hands.

There’s a history of the heart conjuring from the back-row in this part, experting misdirection, levitating while waiting for your hand to pass around the heart confirming there are no strings attached. There are no strings attached, but everything is connected. Everyone claps.

For swallowing the swords without piercing the heart tricks there are heart charts, the heart says, spreadsheet proofs, 90 proof if  that doesn’t help, diagrams that look like fried eggs and Friday nights for sure. For other solid-through-solid heart tricks you have to watch the extra-bonus features, see the one page summary on forever, the heavy heart chapter that fits in the fortune cookie, the nut that can’t be cracked, the secrets layered in the lining.

Here the heart is pinned down 21^st century homeboy style, tricked out to volunteer for the Vitruvian-wheel pose, for the turning knife throwing wheel trap as the heart spreads out the pubic republic of heart. That’s how here we learn that every heart has a crotch part that goes unprotected; quit kicking me in the heart’s crotch, the lead heart says, doubling-over, doubling back. Here the heart enters a hospital for hearts. Here the heart realizes that the hearts in fin infested waters, and in fin infested waters heart don’t come with much swim. Here the sounds travel four times faster, so what you hear is nearer that you think, just like with hearts.

In this half the heart sneaks out, barks endless, into the sunset sometimes, takes one for the team, crew-cuts the questions, takes up the revolution of questions, six-foots easy. Here the heart has to be side-doored Inferno: entered through the pits, in the deep place astray halfway along heart’s April, or whenever else the heart gets attacked by Have To, and No Choice, and Now-the three chimeras untamable and lovely cleaver.  So in limbo the heat raps with the other heroic hearts held in upturned flames, hearts like an upturned flame. The heart is torn up by having to go through the fields of those endless hearts which didn’t follow their hearts forever, or even past the first time. Sometime after limbo and before forever, the heart climbs out heart first, hand over heart over the head of the beast’s beating heart to get out of the hard heart place where it started inspired and chilling and childing.

In this part the heart learns it’s so hard for the heart to high-heel when crossing the surface of your less lovely.  The heart sets to restoring the heart’s objects into their original shape: the rope, the newspaper, the heart sawed in half. In this end the heart wonders what will happen to the first heart part sawed in half.  Here the heart gets in a good jab at the unlikely, swallows the loss of last time here. Here the heart adds the hook, the domestic detail, trucks a sink into the forest and sets up the sink on the tree trunk, a shrine to get clean, shamans the swindle, tries hard to heart right this time.  I’m trying so hard to heart right. Everyone nods.

Here’s the part where the heart moves fast. Where your heart moves threw me off fast. When your heart did a head-fake, my heart fell for the juke. Your heart foot-worked the hat-tricks, has hops, ups, helicopters Pele, moves after the slide-tackle moves, the give and go moves, the step-over moves, pick-and-rolls to the point through the lane only open in moving, for the lane is only ever open in moving, dribbles perfectly in the break-away. What a lovely trap you set. Please wrap your trap around me tight while we practice empty. Here the heart has a heart-dance ready if it reaches the end zone, if there were an end zone, but the heart knows there is no end-zone, because there are lots of end-zones, that the end zones are endless, that it’s all one long running game of endless end zones as the universe curves horse-saddles expanding infinitely near in every direction.

This is the part where the heart disappears and cuts off inconclusively