Wednesday, November 26, 2003

My debts are great: my worst crime has always been indifference. There's no clear opening here, and no starting point. But now! I chimed through, fell through ice. Gulls laughed. They laughed! Polar Bear stuck his paw in and dragged me out. Big black dots on a white dome invisible against the sky - kind baker's eyes and snubby nose. Left alone on pack ice, meanwhile, I digest a blizzard. There was no clear start, but I always start inside the Arctic circle, no? Banks Island, Baffin Bay, or Melville Island. A glacier carving icebergs, and valleys. Snowy owl on arm. Otherwise, hermit-like. This is actually actual CLARITY - it's the lost course, and life mapped by pain, flight, coincidence. But, it is, another part of the world: trails through the Midwest, highways, a broken nose, Rimbaud as a gift, one-off dinner with the crazy family.

Says: "Those people, they are fucking out of their mind."
Says: "That's what they say about you too."
Says: "That's what they think of us."
Says: "No, no, but that's a good thing."

So, here's the thing. You pick out the guitar and it's all sticky needles, pin-pricks, and swirling blades. The trick is to pick your way through; the point is, you never do.

Lust and detours - dust, sand, ash - and then the points in between the dense, dead patches, the moments of contact - understanding the significance of what just happened, or what happened then. The milestones and the markers. Kisses, clashes. This is not the kind of song I usually fall into - who laid the trap in this song? It's laced, lucid. There's scorn, and surprise. Indifference, generosity and (ill-)will.

There's also: the thing I am, the thing I am not. A double bind, disqualified: the question or the conflict has no significance, and only because it does not exist. Just becomings and the (im)possibilities of love, and what underlies: hate, intensified. The take-off and the trapdoor. We brought ALL into it: the feline, wet slate, train travel, breakfast, dread, affirmation. All these points of significance laid out on a flat plain: horizontal, not vertical. Not a flow or swarm, simply a diagram, and connections in all directions. I thought I was about to receive a message from you, but it was shards of birdcall, ice floes, Catallus, close tears, a spine stroke. I don't think (about time, death, or metaphysics): I don't think, I map. And so there's whatever happens, and the process of naming. This takes rigor, transparency, courage. All in the affirmative (even the negative). Whatever happens has no shadow or phantom. Daylight and midnight reveal each other. Tower blocks twinkle outside my window, the moon pours over my sheets. Car trails from a bridge cause a clinch. There's more, too.

Give me the steel, the mask. We hit the carnival. Break streets like ice. Crush cool, then spit. We made the pact but it never came to that. The path was marked, we took another route, without choosing. There's more too. It's an odd tale, and it will be told.

Born of Desire, action tends to satisfy it, and can do so only by the "negation," the destruction, or at least the transformation, of the desired object: to satisfy hunger, for example, the food must be destroyed or, in any case, transformed. Thus, all action is negating.
Alexandre Kojeve

To reverse what I was saying, and be right.

posted by oc  # 6:27 AM

citta vecchio

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