Saturday, January 27, 1996

January 27

Down at the piano and played. Dance was some consolation. A small moral carnival, a system of aesthetics far superior to mine. Trust in plumed processions. Community, an indispensible function. Punctual and sedate. The crowded air and neighboring life. Summer in a steadfast land. The faded syllables that quicken us. To a village for breakfast when winter shook the lines. Memorials in the snow. The thoughtful grave encloses untravelled roads. The bosoms where frost has lain. The immediate kindness of nature in its most extreme. The spirit of grace in landscape, blood and form. To reach so small a goal, dare to touch it now, to get away. In short, to prosper.

This the signal, woe. Another such vehicle through what transported anguish. Watched for faith in vain where schoolboys dare not look. The effort of maintaining an attitude in the new-fashioned world. To plunge through the ice into frozen water without abolishing or altering syntax, without perishing in the process.

Like a whip, we were given winter, silent, its sharp white teeth from the ocean of possible words. The visible presence of perfection’s faultless armature, the internal order shunning disguise, the crystalline structure of a delirium so sweet as to be obeyed. An opening to the world which turns and looks, which presents itself implicit in the continuous, violent, always capable impasse into which the ever-more-fatal concantations can occur only in convulsions, chimeras, hallucinations. A strange overwhelming suffocation slowly into a constellation our science knows. We have purified our perception of form, a sodden almost diluvian problem in terms of symptoms. Region, the ultimate form, is not elaborated, is deprived of any existence and reduced to empty analyses. Swallowed up in their blind surrender. Cowardice becomes a glowing hope, that one distinctive consolation under the useless and stupefying night hammered by gongs. Damp matches, a can of sardines. Grief the largest part of joy but not enough. That superhuman road of passions, which is mania, the frenzied nadir smelling faintly of carbolic acid. It is the whole body which suffers, provokes the signs. Arms, legs, the face left derelict and bleeding. Space exploded in signs, assumes the part of a relay station, a supply depot in arctic wartime, escapes the old localization. The marvelous gift of the forest inflamed, and of silence. Snow filling these low places slowly but forever. In this secret night the fatal core is absent, we plunge through darkness accompanied by dogs.

Fools are all I see revealed by history, this skeletal body rising slowly like radar under colored lights, this hound within the heart. Phosphorescent flesh reveals the dark rage of the masters of nature, masters of the world, of our ships, our immense literature, our vocation of a common odyssey into the threats and secrets of the world, the punishment of our disorderly and useless science confined within the city gates, not linked to the world like other precious substances, no value as passage or premise, blurred and disturbed in its wild untamable complacencies. The imperial heart beguiled by centuries. Useless as the next morning’s sun.

A small group of people stand around on the streetcorner listening in the silence. Newspapers, morality, tomorrow’s Europe. On the morning of this licentious liberty they are not sure where to turn. More victims asking for the same fate which encloses everyone. Still weary they follow the road. Doomed, unheard.

Pity the industrious angels, gone where the jugglers have gone.

My eye outweighs my heart. How odd the girl’s life looks, behind this soft eclipse.

The things to watch for, next time. And shut the windows down.