The glow of old age drops from a black lamp of regret. Light and regret mingle to create this glow. Odd glow. Odd odd glow of regret. Which is a feeling. Which is an image. Which is a frustration. As if one walked around with a museum inside. And that museum had glass cases and dioramas the way museums do. And shells and skeletons from previous ages. Imprints of plants, ferns and tiny sea creatures in limestone. Sandstone. And so I see dioramas of regret. Like little dramas occurring ages and ages ago. And still going on. This theater. This life.
Language rolls through my brain in apples and stars. Consonants big as wheels. Rubber wheels whose tread is consonant with the vowels of movement. And all this occurring among the waves of consciousness. What is called consciousness and is described as waves. Which are consonants and vowels in an image of emerald water with energy moving through it. So that a wave is created. So that consonants and vowels mingle in an emerald shape of movement. Below which are the creatures living in a medium of language. Creatures of sound and meaning that develop out of language. And crawl into the world. Crawl across a sheet of paper. Shells and antennae in the movement called curiosity.
And when they die they become fossils of regret in a museum of regret. Because regret is an emotion whose monumentality requires the stolidity of glass and marble. And will not go away. But whose dramas go on and on and are never resolved.
Because we create ourselves at each moment. The simple act of perception is a moment of creation. Moments of creation. That are inherently imperfect. As if there were but one correct way of seeing. Which would be ridiculous. Ridiculous considering the size of the universe. Ridiculous.
My skin was forged in a plywood cocoon. And is therefore ridiculous.
The tug rattles chewing the waves. Ridiculous.
Volition within the involuntary is the paradoxical formula for the possible dissolution of the antinomy of aesthetic domination. This is how I escape the banality of form and develop a thesis of radical effusion. That seeks its own form. A new form. A form like fornication, or rapids, or petty bourgeoisie, or rutabaga. Like these, but none of these. Itself, unique and gabled and soft as a hunting jacket.
My eyes open and monstrosities of form and scintillation jump inside and go to my brain for interpretation. Visceral shadows push them into language. Where they become a romance novel with Fabio on the cover.
Here is a flavor freighted with faith. Faith tastes of monasticism. Cold mornings and wine at twilight. Hypnosis and cactus and French ocher and gamma globulin. All ridiculous.
Life? Ridiculous. Mustaches? Ridiculous. Mezzotints? Ridiculous. Sarcophagi? Not so ridiculous. But ridiculous all the same.