Samuel Scoville: What a Good Boy Am I

Monday, April 2, 2012

What a Good Boy Am I

            Devotions.

Sitting on my ass waiting, watching
& knowing Gödel’s theorem will

kick-in with news from beyond:
OMG & holy smokes how it comes
with crows and early light—ideas like
swarms of sparrows. Buzzards might
land & stretch their wings. Fools Rush
Inn. No angels need apply. Gracias!
A wretch like me.

   Age of Enlightenmentalism
   & Reasons Why

Because. Because rationality is rational:
ratios and measure-mental. I can drop
irrationality as not to be counted or
determined—and so: admittedly
half- assed I salute my reductions,
quantifying quality, digital logical
analogies in order to suit my agenda.

     You got a problem with that?

Caesarian short-cuts: I study what I can
measure ignoring what I can’t & the sloppy
indeterminacy of full labor delivery--hell
with that. .

Stick in my thumb.
Pull out a plumb.
What a good boy am I

          "Masturbating A Glitter "

Sylvia Path says that.
Took me a long time to
figure what she meant.

That was before Face Book
Now I know. Now I do.

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Auto Bio

I choose, as a determining POINT in my life, to acknowledge a bullet fired into the armpit of my grandfather, Samuel Scoville, Jr. by a thief in the night sometime in the late 19^thc.

The thief escaped, my grandfather having pulled his own pistol from beneath the pillow, squeezing off a couple of rounds and sending the burglar scurrying into the Connecticut night...

For reasons of family notoriety, the incident was reported in both New York and Philadelphia papers. A former roommate in Philly called up Young Goodman Sam, inviting him down for a weekend gala: The Yale-Penn Football game. “You can take my sister Katherine, and chaperone me and my fiancé, he said.

In those days couples were not advised to be alone. Unaccompanied.

Sam took a steam-driven locomotive train down to Philadelphia, escorted Katherine to the leather-helmet contest, fell in love, asked her to marry him. She did & they lived more or less HAP-ily ever after, generating a tribe of offspring who like wise generated in kind so that if it hadn’t of been for that bullet, well, it’s impossible to begin to consider how unimaginably different life-as-we-know-it would have been. No one can say.

For one thing: YOU, dear Reader, wouldn’t be reading THIS HERE right now, resurrecting these words to walk around in your skull-haus this very be-here-now moment. So even you are impacted forever by that bullet.

(I could drive up to Connecticut right now, retrieve the small bite of lead, drop it in your hand and remind you how co-incidental our life is—how inexplicable, how arbitrary & selective our accounts, how much we omit which is also absolutely necessary, how inadequate our because & affects.)

The bullet is a NECESSARY but INSUFFICIENT cause of who-I-am, without which any explanation would be incomplete. Sam Scoville

Samuel Scoville