Thursday, January 11, 1996

January 11, 1996

A hiding place. A fire. A pair of shoes (marvelous shout!)
Passing the bicycle sheds. Don’t dash down all at once, climb in and out of the empty wagons all in a heap, quite untrue, stiffly side by side indefinitely. Ill-fitting teeth, vivisection in order to inspect and pain yet to experience, beginning to talk of that already. A comb, old letters rather than anger committed on the body in no mood to learn. A little ashamed of our silence, tired of being amazed. Other shoes, other clothes lying on the table, stripped beds. They came in and closed the door behind them. Rare interventions surrounded by an abyss.

“to avoid separation from captured relation”

joined to all this sorry business about her body.

With tender care their accordians and violins, to this cruel and silly imposition of certain constraints, the work done there in daylight, the necessity of living under it with particular joy, within which thieves are marked. Bundles tied together mysteriously, without the influence of men. Simply amazed in my present state of disgrace, shuddering and always a little duty to obey.

(The gallows if you lose)

A hundred miserable and sordid puppets to lie on the bottom, rubbish, indescribably so. The funereal science of numbers in this house burnt to a cinder and refused by their own competence is the absolute center of the present. Full of fervor the gardener rings and I penetrate blindly as almost always, half-complacently and lingering, sensing vague inquietude arise, bitter scorn and mockery, not a hair’s-breadth difference makes us ferocious and we cannot sit down to hide from the wind (do not pull the wool over your eyes) vous n’etes pas a la maison.