Introduction

All writing has a purpose, stated or not. (I may disagree with this later. It is my prerogative.) And in that spirit, I feel it important to give you, dear reader, a statement of purpose for this journal/record/thingy that I’m writing.

This is a place for the Republic of Heaven, a place for nation-building, a lonely island where two might be, a Rivendell, a parliament, a place of becoming, a place to combat the ravaged platter of meats and summaries, despairings and in-built violences. It is a hopeful place—that will not always give hope. Hope is the purpose.
Pairs might gather here, like mating ducks. They will not borrow from others, but steal. They will cash their checks, read volumes, and screw the banks. They’ll live in the Banks. Sing ditties and write symphonies that suck, or attempt to paint the world like a slick canvas—this is not a metaphor—and it’ll take a whole lot of paint to make things stick.

Green. This is a growing place. Green. You might even see a made-up word or two. Because, like Charles Olson says in Projected Verse, “the conventions with logic has forced on syntax must be broken open as quietly as the [structure and meter] of the old line.” Green means fuck syntax. Green is the purpose.

If I want the picture of a boy to loiter in the middle of a sentence, it will. Boys are the purpose. Or as Vicktenstein says, “The world is everything that is the case.”