Nature has given us the use of language. But why? What for? I have made a thesis of this. And glue. Syntax is the glue of words. Secretion is how our bodies communicate with the outer world. Corduroy makes excellent pants and the moon just hangs around all day. The wind is the wind. Clothing, meanwhile, drools from our drawers, listless and hungry for use. Syllables chisel redemption from the air. Am I a fiasco, we sometimes ask ourselves, or just another convolution of skin and anguish? My dream is to one day utter a sentence so long and complicated that our little village will levitate and jingle when I walk. Each day has its own excuse. Today’s excuse is late summer, lightly peppered with eyes and hinges and a dash of idealism. When Mick Jagger asked me to join the Rolling Stones I had to say no. Why, he asked. Well, I said, I don’t know how to play a musical instrument. I hear the sound of machinery and want to replicate it like Keith does on his mighty guitar, but I can’t do it with spoons or strings, I have to use my mouth, I have to form words with my mouth, and let them drip into the world like Delaware, like analgesics from heaven. I am hectic with tin, Mick, and I want to join the Rolling Stones, but I must go it alone, yes sir, just like Samuel Beckett when he stood on top of a hill and shook his fist and berated the earth for its miseries and mud. We all have a need to escape ourselves. There are often miscarriages, but in the end it is the politics of the potato that must remind us how malleable behavior can be, how remarkably like henna as a dye and how, during summer, words smell of rum. Proximity is a form of approximation. This we know. But the burden of being human attracts totalitarianism if it isn’t watched closely. Insecurities do this. Insecurities cause insult and statues. The sublime makes its demands, I know, but it doesn’t hurt to drop a nail occasionally while you’re building a new salon and play with perception as it were shapes of crystal and elevated our existence from our habituated empires and saw space for truly what it is, an autumn in the bones, a roller coaster full of screaming teenagers, a break in the sky from which thunder rolls, and rain, and the darkness of night when the horizon drags itself out of the sun and into the sugar of a happy disorder.
Gate of Gates?
2 days ago