Cuff Link

There’s a grandeur in a cuff link. You have to look for it, but it’s there. The sheen of the cuff link coincides with the luster of the violin and suggests a certain decorum. The violin and the cuff link are all about decorum. The syzygy sizzles in zithers. I can see Paris in the distance. Its arrival trembles on the paper. This is called furniture.

There has been a lot of rain lately. The river is flooding its banks. I say this in relation to wood carving, which has its own logic, its own laws and ways of doing things, and whose chips collect at the base of the steps. There is just enough clay in the world to mimic the shipwreck of truth on the banks of experience, but not enough to duplicate the ingenuity of spring. Only yesterday did I see a man walk down the street in a bathrobe carrying a Technicolor headache.

I feel the presence of a certain plaster. My right arm is a proverb. My left arm is an elevator. Together we accomplish farms and juggle hairdryers.

Fossils are treasured for conversation. They hide in postage stamps, attracting stepladders and Mediterranean odysseys. I feel the same way about embroidery as I do about sweatshirts. The Grateful Dead were no ordinary rock group. Their butter pulsed with a better dream than the grommets of gastronomy.

Which is why there’s no guided tour today. I think, instead, I will practice the drums and study concrete. I don’t know why I do the things that I do. Elegance has its own oils. Behavior cries for expansion. The representation of a misunderstanding argues in favor of plumage and space. All misunderstandings are beautiful because they lead to philosophy.

Abstraction comes with its own set of exigencies. Which is why the life of the philodendron is so fat with heaven.

It’s not just the ocean, it’s the general idea of fins. You can see it in the eyes of the fish. They seem always so casually surprised and conscious of little else but their own movement. This is why I’m so attracted to them as metaphors. They’re so natural. They carry the mystery of their life in a milieu of water like words in the milieu of a sentence. The milieu contains them, but not completely. The boundary between sky and water is indeterminate. A school of fish inhabit the dream of movement in surges of unpredictable movement. Whatever the thought the words convey, their theme is never static, but seethes in unending sequence.

Fire sweetens the air with heat. I’ve never met Joan Jett but I imagine she’s quite nice. Why is it always so exciting to meet musicians? Perhaps because they know how to bend space. The strongest songs are sometimes sung by a gentle voice. Beowulf, for instance. There are great delicacies there. One feels the compression of the words in the chaos of the mead hall.

Elsewhere in the world insects, constitutions, and wheelbarrows pulse with fanfare. English priests wander in the fog. Samuel Beckett buys Grendel a beer at the Deux Magots. The rain walks backwards down the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Personally, if I had to make a choice, I’d go for the pumpernickel. As for propellers, it should be obvious: they arouse a love of form.