Thinking It Over

with Oliver Burell

I ramble to myself alone in my apartment as a sort of meditative or therapeutic practice. It is not necessarily pleasurable to listen to, nor particularly impressive. It may, at best, elicit some sort of novel perspective in your own life; or at worst waste time and energy and make you hate me. boliverb.substack.com

  1. Jul 13

    Orpheus, My Death Of Her, A Poem of Life Explained

    Another audio post, regrettably, about Orpheus and Poetry, made when I was fresh on the heels of a painful break-up. Now with distance I kind of like it. I cut all the explicitly break-up related stuff, which was clogging the line, but that included my introduction of a specific concept: I was lamenting an aspect of misalignment, which I described as her total vantage of life, and my total vantage of death. I liked her life as a contrast and it was enriched by the tonal implications of Orpheus. You can figure how on your own. Gregory Orr is the author of that book I mentioned, entitled Orpheus & Eurydice. It is a book of short poems detailing the story from each of their perspectives as it unfolds. Really lovely. The recording is pretentious on the first third and then really laid back. I decided before I began that I would own the title of ‘poet’ while recording, and I regretted it. I break down the following poem, meaning-wise, line-for-line: Why the fog? Why this morning? The cracked window draft, unfinished self A thirty-some foot mountain of tissues holding tears cum and mucous which looked like the Virgin Mary when you blur your eyes. I was sick, then I watched ‘Drive My Car’ Then you stopped responding again. My monastic room was meant to pry some distance between me and everything - you, but it became a greenhouse, a tent on the river, and then a motor buzz soundscape drowned- out reception desk where I take three phone calls- and with each practice my Cadence/ repetition, verbiage - Do you remember the earlier efforts, when the lights dimmed, and drum boom shook the seats, our spines tingled with fear? We were kids then. Incredible— The furrow is more or less a permanent feature of my brow, now, Made so by your shacking up with college friend, the jettison of responsibility by conservative cousins, the many years in domestic purgatory with a seeded garden, which we would not harvest, and my Prominence among the Italian ruling class from 1781 onwards- Things became more difficult as we went on- Vienna eventually killed me mysteriously, at my own death house And when I came to visit you pretended we were strangers, sour as you were, so much that when I touched you, you shrank back, annoyed. Things like that stick around. I was not meant to become so hateful- it was just a function of this living and how it went away from me. Years in between I would be involved in some nationally publicized treason- A misunderstanding You just happened to be at the place I was and we happened to talk, and what words, what undertones? It was all left to the press. What I do remember, the story about my father and the nature of projection, the child turning around and then I looked up- you had a tear in the corner of your eye. I found out you were there all along. As with so much the unmaintained autumn decays to winter, wet slop, people couple up two streets off the main drag and argue about soup ingredients, temperature, which causes mine and some others’ stock to improve greatly. There is beauty in a certain kind of death, I guess, but not most; after all I am alone in my northern apartment And it is cold in and out, a beckoning graceless messy altar where You will be judged kindly. Listen if you like to listen to that sort of thing, otherwise I’ll see you next time. Best wishes, Oliver This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit boliverb.substack.com

    Orpheus, My Death Of Her, A Poem of Life Explained
  2. 08/16/2024

    Thinking Over A Fine-Toothed Morning Comb and 'Poem of Yearning'

    My friend’s have mentioned at long last that they like some of these things, so I am doing it again. Listen in, I expose all my secrets (well, most) and tell the truth about things. I like being truthful and am good at it. It is a practice. Here is the poem I reference in the post: (POEM OF YEARNING) Was meant today to start the new play; A woman is shot and slides down a hill, at the bottom of the hill she dons a mask, a death mask which is covered in green earth and a single flower like a lily pad. A child approaches in bucolic clothing and grabs the flower little by little and puts it in her basket, tearing the petals, leaving the meat. The gunman sits down nearby for a spell, in a fugue state. He buries his gun in the soft ground. What does it mean? I couldn’t tell you. There are other themes I need to investigate today, of my waking life: The silver edge of a worn porcelain cup, been repainted. I am thirty three this year, Last night went to my friends forty-fifth birthday party. His kids put on the play I mentioned; I aim to steal it off of them. He said to me over coffee that I’m closer than he was. Older friends sometimes say that to me. Though today I accidentally forget age and the past it built. I have one bit of truth to build and its in the novelty of every new day and every new state: I needn’t behave in such accordance to things the ‘were’ if it is in conflict with things that ‘are’. Now Bella and I are meant to make hats; Now Tess and I have plans to catch up. The girl I had a crush on at Guero is gay, like most every crush I get. The other one and the other one has a boyfriend- And this morning when I m********e out of depression I end up crying, like always, for the chasm between here and there- It is tiresome to elevate and compress over and over; I keep it up as a function of living, I say to myself, and then today an hour after crying I hear a song I AM KINDA NEW… I am indeed man, and it needn’t sound meaningful to you, sometimes these things hit, because it was for me. And that’s not even the most notable thing of the morning; a beautiful cool day with some intrigue; some freedom of being; some crush to message and dribble away; some stupid jokes, friends coming over and records on and a little waffle- imagine that a waffle this fine autumnal pretending morning, I say to myself, like the older cats I’m closer than I was, this day- This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit boliverb.substack.com

  3. 06/29/2024

    Thinking Over FEAR BOOK FIRST LOOK

    HELLO TO YOU ALL WELCOME TO THIS EXCITING POST! I put in a little effort here and made a video version of the dang audio post. So you can really imagine you’re there with me and we are friends and all that. (Imagine as well as you’re able we are friends; and you may find at the end of your imagining that it is so :) ) I read briefly from my play and the talk about fear and growth for a moment, and then ask desperately for anyone to be my friend. I find it to be a good one. Watch or listen if you got some time and also want to and also are in a position to. As always the quoted bit is below. All summer loves and beautiful lives to you all we surely deserve it. Peace, Love, Easy Life, Easy Death- Oliver JOAN: I have a story I want to tell you. Once, A man found himself in a desert, wandering, and though it spread around him there was one direction he couldn’t move in, just one, and so he moved away from it. And as he walked through he passed many interesting things; a cactus, jackrabbit, stones. Each one he passed appeared almost suddenly and then disappeared slowly behind him. He loved those things and each time they left he was saddened. Some of them were rare, some of them he would see over and over again. JOAN: Then after a long time walking he suddenly noticed ahead of him that on the horizon was something grey and steel; it spread out beyond comprehension in either direction. After a while he understood this sublime wall to be hull of a great ship, one that supersedes the understanding of a simple man. He marveled at it as he approached. Was this once an ocean? he thought. Finally he arrived at the foot of it. He stopped walking as there was nowhere to step. He wished to pass, can I walk around? he thought. No. You cannot circumvent this ship. you will perish of old age trying. JOAN: He stood at the base of it, unsure- unable to go back, unable to move forward, until he realized something: it was a ship, he thought, I must look to its expanse and find an opening. JOAN: He laid his head against its unbearable mass, rested his cheek upon the metal and felt the cold of it. He looked out against the infinite plain of the hull, (the way it is more than infinite, the way it is advancing) for a chip, a digression in the face. He found one. Slowly he made his way there with his eyes unmoving, grasped the opening with his hands. He noted the soft bevel, the sharp bits. He counted to three, held his breath and peered inside. It was overwhelming. He gazed deep into the black nothing, and, terrified, pulled away and sat down in the sand. JOAN: For a long time he sat in the sand, waiting for something. Without moving, without the jackrabbits and cacti, it was impossible to tell how long he had sat there. But his eyes began to crease, And his skin hardened in the sun and wind. He looked at the porthole intermittently, and then less and less. The things he had passed and loved were nearby enough, still visible behind him. They would disappear if he went inside. He made himself comfortable in the sand; His unhappiness grew. He could get no closer to those things he loved, and he saw nothing new. JOAN: There came a day finally, when his unhappiness was no longer bearable. Still, the absence of life in the ship seemed worse than his misery. He wanted to die. Really, he felt he was already dead. In a fit of desperation, he peered once again into the black of the ship. Why was he cursed to come this way? He wondered, why was he destined for this misery? His existence seemed pointless. It would end here if he did not move. Okay, he finally thought. Nothing Else. No, this porthole is your life. It’s all you have left. THEO has wandered back to his chair through this monologue and sits looking at the mirror. THEO: he’s meant to be me? JOAN: It’s an allegory. THEO: For me? I have a ship? JOAN: For anyone. (pause) but yes, you might. THEO: Hm. THEO (takes a sip of his drink. the last sip. looks at it mournfully). THEO: It’s sort of boring. 'The only way out is through.' I don’t really get much out of platitudes. and it continues… THEO takes a sip of his drink. The last sip. He looks at it disappointed, then back at the mirror. THEO: So this man, he went in and what happened? JOAN: (dully) Oh yes, He went in. (resumes narrative voice) The air was stale and cold on his face. As he fumbled through the hole his hands found a floor. he sat there touching it, comforted, oddly, by some sense of dimension in the space. After he rested for a while he noticed a screw head, a lone piece of information in the otherwise black room. He stared at it hard. And then, suddenly, in his periphery he saw another. His eyes were adjusting, just a little. He was less scared. He started walking and after a timeless period of darkness he felt there was a soft haze of light. It was difficult terrain, but the haze made more and more visible the obstacles. The man’s joints started at last to loosen, and he knew finally that he would make it through. One day, in the growing haze of light, he passed by a large piece of old machinery, and was confronted by a small hole in the distance, creating a solid beam of sun. It was beautiful. The man thought about the cacti, and rocks, and jackrabbits and ran forward with renewed energy. His legs ached and he was out of breath but he could not slow down. He neared the hole. He saw the blue of sky. He felt fresh air. He plunged his head through the opening. (rests) THEO: And so he made it? JOAN: He came out on the other side, yes, and saw many new things, but was old and tired. He could not experience them the way he had before. He died shortly after. THEO: An unceremonious ending. What a waste. I hate it. JOAN: Yes. THEO: Well. (walks over to the table.) Could use another drink, I suppose. (sits down, situates self.) Be well boliverb.substack.com

  4. 06/18/2024

    Thinking Over 'One-Way Correspondence with Theo'

    I’ll attach below, as always, the reference material that I am using here. I have taken some time off, and am pleased, because the first version of me ‘Thinking over' this sucker went horribly. I was too stupid. Now I am smart. I may do a double post this week, which should be informational. If you’re new, These audio posts are referencing previous written posts, so you may want to read it, but it’s fine if not, you can also just read along below. Here’s the shit: Thought-Letter to John A Theo Well you never answered but if you had I’d have told you all about that day and the new insight which no doubt overrides the previous twenty, and to that end redefines my human life; all is lost, but I will try and restore it: Did you know, Theo, that I am consolidating my struggles for better or worse into one large piece of day which is most of it, actually, and in doing so, gleaning hopefully a base understanding of its basest form? Maybe you didn’t but anyway, I have, functionless, observant, and thought I was becoming more agreeable or capable one but no, That day I understood something clearly which eluded then and eludes now its description, something phenomenal, and it was the extent of failure poured into labor over ten years which depending on your frame of reference is possible even impressive, maybe to you at least, and probably partly that's why I was calling anyway, but beyond that failure is the definition of failure which is also mired in independence and cannot be communicated and John I wonder if the failure I speak of becomes very much something else when pushed through a lens of desperation; I wonder if when you pull back just a little there is a snag of beauty and I’ll tell you what I realized about that is the lens itself is the lens and the failure is in its imperceptibility, look, man, I was meant to run my life through a sieve of observation and like some quantum state of self I am both magnificent and delusional lonely or beautiful, and maybe the thing I was really trying to get it at, that clarity, is that, John, I came to see, It is always both, and wow hey what profundity in the idling meniality, I know, f**k man, I know, but there's a facet of that which is real, that the performance is always human, no? if I dual laze and seek the validation of the screen, of the eye, of the reading, and am hidden away the laze is imbued with the beauty which seeks to come out and when the beauty is nigh and the eye is here, in my space, touching my hand, my laze is practiced, but not inauthentic. Not always laze no, today, by way of example, I have reclaimed desktop real estate wineglass condo, which has beautiful afternoon light, spilling red across the wall and books, and you are not here nor would you be, you to me, it was nice, though, not you and not my Ex, to observe, to make incredible my mundane for any, and you may find it deficient, who knows, but it is a labor of its own good friend, an unpaid dignity which I maintain, showering beautifully, and organizing my room and carrying my laundry beautifully and thinking with beauty about beautiful work so that some day some person says to me, the way, Oliver, you carry your laundry, is so elegant, and then I hate them for being so small, for not sharing that beauty into everything, I’m all f****d up, Theo, no surprise, have been and I’d guess you know I’d get here, were waiting even, but don’t miss the point: If there is nothing else, I know that I know as much as someone can while being, as tough as it is. and you are gone and cannot see my being so I am writing to tell you about it. Great news at last for and from me! Two insights of hope! One now and one spelled out below. Which is, let’s see, a bit of ego, too, forgive me, its true, first is this- The first is this: Some insight toward writing and art, I am increasingly singular, the product of effort, began seven years or more, not Bukowski, hah! Not Lerner, never, nor Rosmarie, Keith, Didion, nor Beckett, although, anyway this good news to me and the way it came into vision- Scott sent a Lerner video and everyone uses such big words and furthermore understands big concepts and really I think Lerner is it, you know, and how do I look to Lerner? well/ I dont. And so there’s the feeling forever that just around the bend, there, there, so close you can theres this feeling that my metric is all broken and the lattices are splitting one by one- I am lowered- I mean, you understand, the lattices, whatever, but no! I found out once again as per usual that one should not/ cannot compare selves, or more what I mean really is that Lerner has academic philosophical conceptual perfection well cornered, and I don’t see many people over on that other spot, that sort of grey patch which nudges out against the varying hills. In fact! As I look I am more or less alone in that regard, NOW! HOW about that man! Used to be I simply approximated (poorly) then it became that I could slip by in my way and work up against those approximations, then finally the unshackled being which is evidenced in this sentence being quite long and denying structure and I don’t even think (!) my friends I do not even think anymore of style or language, just thought itself, and it has little very little to do with Ben or Theo or famous people too and sometimes I could even imagine a world where someone writes something down and notices they are doing that Oliver thing. I mentioned it was ego heavy, thanks for bearing with me, those who have, and am I more interested in anything than talking at length about myself and what I think? but it is not purely ego—and besides there are all the other considerations of writing which now lay into me, and I am failing, but getting better— it is that I have made an effort to this end and here at this end I am looking back it is optimistic. In ten years I may have the required materials to write something really good, or I may be dead, whichever. Okay thanks for listening if you did. Love you all, Oliver This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit boliverb.substack.com

About

I ramble to myself alone in my apartment as a sort of meditative or therapeutic practice. It is not necessarily pleasurable to listen to, nor particularly impressive. It may, at best, elicit some sort of novel perspective in your own life; or at worst waste time and energy and make you hate me. boliverb.substack.com