The Smile Of Art

Desire doesn’t make miracles. It creates problems. Les Misérables is a tempest in the skull. It’s choc-a-bloc with problems. Cobbled with problems. Will Jean Valjean return to the Buccaneers for the foreseeable future, or will he promise Fantine to take care of Cossette? Fishing doesn’t always involve getting your line wet. Sometimes all you need to do is to look at things from another perspective. Inscrutability always works, as do fugues and sonatas in which we see everything going on at the airport has something intrinsically meaty about it, padded and chewed, glowing through and through with the smile of art. The ceremony of noise is coming at us from the north with sharp quills. It will take some understanding. I miss the monarchy. There wasn’t quite so much military propaganda. The mind leaps from problem to problem, brownish black and soft as coal. Words are deposits of sound from which molten rock and steam come out and shake the air with testimony. Leaves smashed in medicine, espousals of likelihood in the jungles of the telephone. This is why it’s so hard to write without being intoxicated. You keep lighting fuses until something explodes. The old world crumbles and a new world emerges. The new world is so new it doesn’t know it exists. You have to look for it in your voice. Or somebody’s eyes. When they’re not looking. And the wind is blowing. And you’re waiting for the check. As a train goes by. The world looks the same. But different. And it’s not on the menu.