Friday, September 10, 2004


i walk around the world in the twilight of a former half, the shadow of a place left now in ruins in a different land, and words course through me like an endless river that has no source and will not cease. there is no cure, i have no one to tell, no telling will undo or help endure the ceaseless following-by me of the words that tell me on and on, the thoughts i've known to understand, and new ones that have entered in as guests of the old... as hostesses replace themselves with future hostesses, the dance removing on to center-down in other spaces, to resume the frolic, and pursue the laughter onwards, forthwards, hopeful for eternity somehow. i do not know how to handle such an onflow, no amount of writing can portray. after a week in solitude, i am full of raging tidal waves of thoughts, each step i take and upwards flood the new eruption, and no meaning can dismount the breaking blaze. Volcano-like it shrouds me like a curse, but holds me up above the regular Void surrounding all the rest of things, and gives the world a certain glow, unknown it seems by all except the Few-- myself and the others, whom i hope to know in time or teach to see, or make from scratch as sculptors make their Friends-- their Foes and enemies as well... there are days, and this is one of them, when all the thinking done between two points is unrecordable and lost into the Space between my brain and the other world, and it seems a monsterous injustice. Unjust that i am prone to such eruptions i cannot control, but also monsterous that they should be lost in such a petty way... but then, when i've the words in front of me, the chisel in my hand, only then to these things reappear-- as though, in being Lost to time, they reappear as other beings, elsewhere in the clay, and i am only the Watcher, living from outside, perceiving all the Wash go by, as no one does; as only the feeler of such a river can know. i have heard others speak of such discomforts, and they call it the writers' disease; and it has been banging on my door all this time, demanding to be let in. it is satisfied by nothing. not the grandest talent in the universe can overcome it, can give it final rest. only the death of the brain, or the flinging of the body fully into the resting place of the stars, can liberate it from this world, this void in which it has found itself, and screams and screams forever to be let free. there are those of us who are destined from the start to hear its screams; to be eternally the victims of its pain; the products of its own captivity in flesh and rock... the makings of this Place... it is no wonder that my only use, my one and only true desire for the Connection, for the Subscription to such websites as give me space to type-- is to have a way to talk and talk and talk-- unceasing, unending-- letting the monster free for just a moment-- letting him breathe... the net will see him, piece by piece--- or maybe it already knows him well... it's hard to say, for i have been more a translator than a researcher of his other translations... patience, i tell him... patience, and the world will be your oyster, as it is already, without you or the oyster knowing yet. i myself have been told the same thing and flown in rage... thus i can understand, his unceasing edge-- his yearning for the Now, for recognition, for the returning-grasp, by humans, to his reaching-out in sessions towards the sun.


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