The golden light of dawn shouts the sky into space.
Faucets are different. Faucets are particular and chrome, like the parable of a
harmonica. Great shadows and great lights. I heard the door slam, yet no one
came in. This happens a lot. What can I say? I live on a planet called Earth.
There is no way to map an emotion, they’re too vague, too prodigal, too
mercurial. What you can do is attend a bazaar of murmuring hearts. Learn the
movement of thought by studying the clouds. Trapeze artists describe space with
their bodies. So do insects. So do faucets. Faucets let water drop into the sink
and it is wonderful to see.
Go: stand on the rocks above the lobsters. This is
how cathedrals inspire a sense of the sublime. Even now my guts are singing a
song of turbulence and height and how serenity and grace may be achieved in
stone. There is the incident of the pretty nail to consider. Odors are too
vague. And my zipper is stuck. One learns much from studying sequences,
correspondences, analogies. I have seen a museum swarm with people and thought
of the anthill and beehive. This morning, for example, my pain resembles a
pilgrimage. The incision of dawn continues to rip the night into shreds and
great equilibriums are proffered and lost, lost and regained. I ache for the
essence of things.
Cause and effect are not always so easy to decipher.
I cannot always identify a smell. The smell of wet clay is as spectral as
summer. May our glory be in our striving to understand. Even a little glass
pepper shaker can recommend a sentence of greenery and progress. I wear a
leather belt not because oysters taste good but because it keeps my pants up.
And because oysters taste good. Each day is a voyage whose port is a bed and
whose destination is sleep. Yet words remain alive in us. Just as the oyster
remains alive in its shell, so does the essence of a word sleep among
convolutions and pearls. The nacreous lining of the shell is full of
subtleties, like the lips of a young woman. Implication is the frosting on the
cake of ambiguity.
No one really knows what true beauty is. Everybody
knows what extraordinary balance the body has, but it takes a lot of inquiry to
rub the mystery of life until it shines like Aladdin’s lamp, and the Flower
Ladies appear in a cloud of smoke, and bump into enamel. Beauty is pleasing to
the eyes but worries the heart with desire. It arrives in the rain when we
least expect it. The sky is the most important landscape. Yet I’m crying on the
inside. Then blue turns to gray, and try as you may, you just don’t feel good,
you don’t feel alright. And you know that you must find her, find her, find
her.
A parable of salt has its compensating movements,
but willpower is an internal phenomenon involving five emotions and a spine.
Cherubs kiss in the shrubbery. Personalities are like rattles, cylinders going
up and down in declensions of stone. A sack of nails is like a sack of candy:
both imitate tin. The least element of a truth evokes the truth as a whole. The
taproot holds the planet in its tendrils. The black back of a snake slithers
into a hole. Death is not my favorite subject. You can see a personality shine
in someone’s eyes and believe you’re aboard a ship with a circus. I’ve never
seen a whale do push-ups in a library. Not until now. Not until today.
The twilight blooms like a martini in a dark lounge
off Interstate 84. Beauty is not distinct from the useful. It mingles with our
eyes. A superior beauty resides in the effects of depth. My black running
shoes, for instance, are lightly coated with the yellowish dust of the Jardin
de Luxembourg. Some identities are hidden like bears hibernating in caves, but
we followed the bells of Saint Sulpice back to our hotel and found elegance in
a stairwell, beauty in the eye of a woman grabbing a sweaty leg, and time
falling out of a clock.
Who has the patience to read a book anymore? My
interior landscape is laden with snow. There is a bookstore in Paris that calls
itself L’Écume des pages and evokes a comparison between the pages in books the
white paper of books and the foam of the sea as it spreads its pages and
volumes on the sand. People once read books with avidity and followed chimeras
over clouds and hills and rocks and trees and opened prodigal doors into
intricate poems delicate and urgent as surgery in an operating room with a
sewing machine and an umbrella.
Noises come spilling out of the air. Meanings are
sipped from a flower of words by the living ears of a zoo of forces. Consonants
and vowels. Birds in a circle above the chop of waves. Daylight scattered in
crumbs of time, minutes and hours and struts and streets. Attach a thought to a
sentence and watch it fly like an abstract machine. There must be pain so that
your spirit may pour forth thought. I once saw man pull a mockingbird out of
his nipple. Some personalities walk the earth like ghosts. And some grow into
sticks, a world of intangible geographies. Mouths make sounds and people wander
the towns. The body is a library of sensations. You can run into glitter that
way. You can find a clean surface and write in order to fully understand the
art of the open air, the shadow of duty on the pommel of a saddle, the
interplay of muscles involved in running or swimming, the meeting of diagonal
ribs in the vault of a cathedral.
I have teased the cotton of consciousness into soft
cooperation and now drip with experience in a U-haul truck of the imagination.
Three forces are struggling over the road: the wind, the clouds, the sun.
Sometimes the world is like that. Subtleties of sliver shout tornado! A tornado
did this to me! I put the thesaurus on the table and the bulb lit up. How about
that. There are degrees of light that change hour by hour, like flights of
Gothic angels, or the colors in a motel curtain. I feel overwhelmed by museums.
The Louvre is huge. Power is gray. The Viking sleeps in thick furs at the stern
of the boat. He dreams that each word is a shape and that he will sing them in
a hall. The hungry are everywhere. The sky hangs like a bridge over a slow
river. I feel a powerful desire to reveal my most hidden feelings, let them
sound like the flap of an awning in front of a deserted store. Walk like a
spoon, dance like a fork. Speak like a knife.
The supreme aim of art is to attain nothingness. The
equilibrium of volumes in the vaults of a cathedral speak to a final emptiness
that is a fullness. That is a circumstance of life pressing forward until
death, and death in life, where it is a momentary amber, sensitivity to another
intelligence and sympathetic voice. Nothingness is the medicine that arrives in
sleep. That pulls the tides. That finds meaning in anything and serenity in
strife.
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