Even Nowhere Is Somewhere

I travel the flame of the candle as it flourishes on the wick. The flame is the same golden tint as the light in Rembrandt’s painting of the philosopher seated by a window, and the fire in the adjacent room, under a spiral staircase, which is being tended by an old woman.

The wick is an invention, created, in this instance, for its light, which is dim and soft, and easy to install in a sentence.

I insist on roots. Clarinets enhance my sophistry. A junkyard moan urges conference with apparitions of surf. Is this a dream, or a table? Ingredients of geometry emerge as habits, windows and chairs.

There is this to say about envy: I don’t envy it. It has no geometry. It has no shape. It’s just a perversion of golf. Elevations walk beside it, dreaming of summits and rocks.

Expect secretions. They will come to you as yachts and romance. Shirts will sometimes occur and require buttoning. Corners prove nothing but offer palettes for our understanding. You can inflate them with your perception until they break into sound and develop sentences of their own.

This will walk beside you until we get somewhere.

Decorations don’t really help. They just lead to clutter. But what word isn’t a decoration? All words are ornaments. They decorate silence. The void beneath everything.

Guzzle it. Guzzle the void. It tastes of release, and the relish of snakes.

It was believed in ancient Greece that if a snake licked your ears you would have the gift of prophecy.

My words create a snake. The mouth does this at room temperature. But if the words aren’t spoken, they remain words. Unzipped zippers. Latencies. They only become a snake when the mouth opens and lets the words out in the proper order.

What order? The order of words that create a snake. Imagination that gives it blood and movement. This idea, this approach.

This pattern, this snake. The snake that tells me that being is a flaw in the purity of non-being.

Many suns revolve in the void, said Nietzsche, who knew something about being and non-being.

I rub fat on the glow of a sound.  There is a shadow that is not affected by pain. It is the shadow of the words born in pain. The words make a sound. I rub the sound. The sound glows.

Being is a gerund of carpentry. The white root of a tapped table that jumps into dreaming and is a sign of indolence. The propagation of a Renaissance lung occurring a little to the side like a flourishing bag of skin carrying a sample of air breathed in the light of Palermo. I elect a needle to the tale of my cocoon. I grow into my wings. I break through the skin of the cocoon. I begin the journey in joy. I end the journey in Bellagio.

And then there is swimming. That’s a whole new sensation. It’s hard to tell a joke in the middle of a lake. Especially when you’re drowning.

Don’t drown. Hear the odor of my breath. Exhilaration in the hippopotamus gum drawer. Chameleon falling through a moment of buttermilk. Thin cure for the tongue of vines.

Naked luxurious nothing. I calculate pasta. I’m lazy. I’m cold. I have a chasm in my heart.  I’m equipped to perceive the imperceptible. The disentanglement of time and water. Simple hammers. The flash of the mind. Emotions swarming the end of a dock in total obscurity. You only get one life. And so regret is the echo of everything undone or done wrong. And there are ways to forget that. There are ways to let that go. One way is to concentrate on the moment. Another is to get in a boat and begin rowing. Just do that. Dip the oar, pull it, dip it again, pull it. Sooner or later you’ll find yourself somewhere. It might be nowhere, but it will be somewhere. Even nowhere is somewhere.