Saturday, December 09, 1995

Saturday, 9 December, 1995

x blacking y silk z gold. To discover the various uses of things. Grievances yet in the practice of virtue, and various objects of luxury space themselves out and disperse, trembling perpetually from their labours. Passion above all else marking the boundaries, gradually abandoned, too ponderous or painful for science, the lantern in order about the whole business . . . just a member of the middle class. With an intimate yet inocent atmosphere. Hospitality, with a view. Low voice, all lapsed. Lyrical outbursts and appeals lost in a remote world.

Many non-entities. Pure, long-drawn the darkness, further away. Read passages from it in a low voice. Corruption in every form of elegance. The pallette, the knife and the bladders, the dreary routine at the point closest to their drives. To the other and back again, a movement that gathers and separates, insignificant details hooked into one another: a house, any number of things from zero, each distance neither length nor appetite, each distance gaining power over men.

Living and dying visibly, with the sound of a particularly burlesque idea of ordering. Logic: to live and flourish before it. Exhilarating to contemplate. Echoed in the water and again onto the underside, spread in little bits. Dark eyes, a tongue, finally gathered together and converged; wax gums joined together with brass springs. Some terrible or beautiful display and adoption. Smoke mingled with gold dust.

A lived, hollowed, warm space where inspiration, suspended for years, ruins, surprises. Shaken and sharpened and rendered almost clairvoyant. Cunning approximations of voyeurism. The past not just approved. To determine the mechanism, the strategy, the race to a past of symbols. The desire to escape from a hateful period. That soft, lopsided arrival of the trains.

The book like a litany closes again in front before she stops. The prevailing graphic emphasis of the territory follows one of these unsubtle surrounding objects. A few meaningless bits of marble. Existence spent in the shelter. In moonlight, furnaces. Red as burning coals, violet as jets of gas, blue as flaming alcohol, white as moonbeams. Blood echoing on the flagstones and risen into the air to meet a strange sky dotted with birds.

Back to the beginning of racial tradition. A larger scale has a calming effect. No bounds, lived constantly, not resting or brooding. Go on without making the same dangers enlarged or diminished. Criminals with a vengeance; we must follow them indoors, as if true privacy (our bodies, houses turned inside out) mistakes by carrying a comfort among the discomforts, revealed when simply held.

Irresponsible, insensible, poisoning memories which somehow stayed, still under water, momentarily interrupting the dark, a strange spiral reverence to a dream of the past, a dark ground with small fires kindled. The whole world caught in that sound, and then remain perfectly silent. Sorrow would gently take possession.

On to emptiness so we plummet.