Saturday, December 16, 1995

Saturday, 16 December, 1995

Fall outside language, or answer in principle to an ideal state, through the voice of a dog.

So many very different kinds of bodies, so many internal reasons for language and such a strong power of forgetting. The various languages between the actions and passions of bodies, and the continual passage which carries them away. The penetrations and expansions that affect bodies. The rocking of a boat, finally, this innuendo waiting like a man disembarking from a ship. Nothing has really been accomplished.

Five minutes of perfect peace and then the same sequence of events, to try and find peace somewhere, to have become obsolete.

The aeroplanes are still crossing the coast every evening. Safety in the smoldering ruins, just about choked with alarms, very tired. One or two basic books, from anybody, to reconnoiter. So human, so necessary, clearly a temporal defeat. The hollow seas closed up, already proficient in the theory with no result. Neither amazed nor damage to be repaired. Blankets unfolded, nothing remains where it is. Smoking ruins and tremble like beasts, because now someone is always, again, speaking with great consistency in choosing his words, subject to rigid language rules, trenches for the liquid according to the absorptive capacity, with beautiful frankness, an imploring voice at the door giving warning, instantly ecstatic. The blond woman in the hallway.

From quarter past seven till half past, from half past twelve till one o'clock, from two till quarter past, from four till quarter past, from six till quarter past, and from half past eleven until twelve, lived through some great agitation. The first friendly picture after the horrors, it was a perfect imitation, picked from the ground on the margins of the permissible, the chief sources of information accused in this danger to one's life. Some hope they will think up a substitute (miserable wretches and rode on) this sort of thing happens nearly every day: hauling the typewriters upstairs, for obvious sentimental and technical reasons. We work on, rat, tat, tat, interested in a little story, uplifting but not too optimistic, to avoid necessary hardships of great political interest soon forgiven and forgotten. Only taken advantage of a choice (these things sound sometimes fantastic) a mere diversion from the class struggle capable of overcoming the caste barrier. Reduced to our condition in as many different languages as animal noises, a greyish film on the clusters of black grapes (in a rain storm one is tempted to try to prevent the chaos of moral catastrophe) in the grip of some fear, or of peace, or of faith. Still twitching, almost totally unknown in this surprising world; the most plausible as the most realistic wholly-isolated and mute element.

On the contrary: systemic things to eat and flowers; such are the times we live in.

Some reason or other, oh, what kind of explosion, dazed by all the abusive exchanges and effective devices for the solving (with documentary evidence) of all the various language rules. This should have an unhappy end and a deadly close silence, a stillness and terrible fear, so dependent on the atmosphere here round the house. The glorious fountain; just what I wanted [but later] and now all that good expensive gas, after which drinks were served. Finally the situation remained as it was, managed to survive the test: extraneous to hatred, a remote possibility, not more virtuous, down irrevocably among chimney stacks and wires.

In need of a new word.

In one's body nothing.

There is a bad mood coming on.