February 23
A life of heroes, of strength and esprit. A theoretical construct that crumbles at the slightest opportunity, whatever the risk. A false story to allay the beginnings of an obsession, forms of self-realization, the parasite that penetrates them in a desperate attempt to remain physically present. To gain access to the secrets in others, by denouncing their own sense of coherence.
The long hold of that obsession, something salted and hard out of a moment-to-moment apprehension, a brief, meaningless and carnal mechanism, a means of identifying what might happen or what had happened. Logically and chronologically moving as if their economic state were the only world which mattered. A line of thought as narrow as the railway, it can and will produce a whole system of bourgeois representations, a blurred reproduction of the mysterious, trapped in iron, hidden from their eyes.
Carried swiftly through the night, the wandering onlooker in a landscape located in a gesture of destruction of the true values of the world within us, images and treasures we have lost, the delimiting defense of boundaries across the whole spectrum of representations, experience, emotion and history diluted by travelling the route normally taken. The noise of trucks washed with the moisture of the morning dew. The gravelled edge of physical decline absorbs all the heat of day as a series of bargains (years.) An unhappy, unnecessary visit and a grim end, with just one short song for the febrile homeland, tossing and turning as dawn glimmers through Dresden’s ruins.
The word comes, spills itself incessantly, blood and wine drenching the earth, a sordid simplicity of objects, people, materials, elements, the occult public festival of a completed apocalypse. To pile up bodies which would find their freedom there in the obscene and absurd liturgical ordeals of secular and premeditated magic, the anatomical logic of daily-repeated bourgeois inertia.
Trembling hands drop the candle trying to recapture habits of feeling, searching for all the absent clothes in the closets as if recalling the inhabitants of the habits and fears of Europe, the lists of those destined for and capable of hard work. The grass itself stops growing, searching for a gateway to the world. Hard labor made human, ignorant as ever of its true movement, that this world does not exist, and that this work is burnt in this superior, impossible possession.
The sea covered with ice and the mutilating device. The burning waterfront across the water. The rumbling of the train along the far end of the earth. To contain the blood there for a moment above the ground in a gentle torpor, induced to perpetuate those boundless evenings of our wandering, the nothingness we are clothed in. Of the wildness of fields beneath the weight of the saddle. The whole world files past, small whitish heaps in the darkness, witnessed so many times. One embarks as on a train, elected and worshipped by absence that passes and overwhelms. A misty figure giving comfort with an ominous whistle. Psychology as if with a knife depicts just enough sinister forms, can no longer contain atrocity, or believe in it. The body of the dreaming sleeper nourished into existence by it for centuries, against the mind. Habitat, the motive, still lingered in them in the peculiar way which conveys loneliness bearable when necessity demands.
To sing the train into light, they remained uncertainly on the pavement, shuttered and half-derelict, nothing in common, not even memories. Benign figures, like bells coupling to make the world match her movements and her gestures, which can no longer contain the hideous dilation of the heart.
A few poppies, gently scattered in monumental clusters, scarlet as radishes, heretical and intoxicating as scenery on a stage. She has let herself be dragged about in a strange night land in its autumn as surely as obedience to the wisdom of their old language, whose core, eaten away, would want something like ashes in every useless direction.
Rain outside, and flowers. Without knowing why.
Nothing, nothing given. Just the view from the window, the road, the brilliant sky, the sleeping swan and falling blade, her vanity and voice in fiery pillars of dust. Impossible to distinguish the common colors of things, except darkness and some broken glass when the atmosphere and the streets flowed in submissive streams to the swarming of bones. Of baggage on a train.
And in the forest we await the end, ashamed for the earth. To undress and bathe with night as a nimbus, with fire the prison of the body. Our weary way with resonance and tears, utterly exhausted, up the slope right into the very heart of it, whatever condition awaits the dead.
A life of heroes, of strength and esprit. A theoretical construct that crumbles at the slightest opportunity, whatever the risk. A false story to allay the beginnings of an obsession, forms of self-realization, the parasite that penetrates them in a desperate attempt to remain physically present. To gain access to the secrets in others, by denouncing their own sense of coherence.
The long hold of that obsession, something salted and hard out of a moment-to-moment apprehension, a brief, meaningless and carnal mechanism, a means of identifying what might happen or what had happened. Logically and chronologically moving as if their economic state were the only world which mattered. A line of thought as narrow as the railway, it can and will produce a whole system of bourgeois representations, a blurred reproduction of the mysterious, trapped in iron, hidden from their eyes.
Carried swiftly through the night, the wandering onlooker in a landscape located in a gesture of destruction of the true values of the world within us, images and treasures we have lost, the delimiting defense of boundaries across the whole spectrum of representations, experience, emotion and history diluted by travelling the route normally taken. The noise of trucks washed with the moisture of the morning dew. The gravelled edge of physical decline absorbs all the heat of day as a series of bargains (years.) An unhappy, unnecessary visit and a grim end, with just one short song for the febrile homeland, tossing and turning as dawn glimmers through Dresden’s ruins.
The word comes, spills itself incessantly, blood and wine drenching the earth, a sordid simplicity of objects, people, materials, elements, the occult public festival of a completed apocalypse. To pile up bodies which would find their freedom there in the obscene and absurd liturgical ordeals of secular and premeditated magic, the anatomical logic of daily-repeated bourgeois inertia.
Trembling hands drop the candle trying to recapture habits of feeling, searching for all the absent clothes in the closets as if recalling the inhabitants of the habits and fears of Europe, the lists of those destined for and capable of hard work. The grass itself stops growing, searching for a gateway to the world. Hard labor made human, ignorant as ever of its true movement, that this world does not exist, and that this work is burnt in this superior, impossible possession.
The sea covered with ice and the mutilating device. The burning waterfront across the water. The rumbling of the train along the far end of the earth. To contain the blood there for a moment above the ground in a gentle torpor, induced to perpetuate those boundless evenings of our wandering, the nothingness we are clothed in. Of the wildness of fields beneath the weight of the saddle. The whole world files past, small whitish heaps in the darkness, witnessed so many times. One embarks as on a train, elected and worshipped by absence that passes and overwhelms. A misty figure giving comfort with an ominous whistle. Psychology as if with a knife depicts just enough sinister forms, can no longer contain atrocity, or believe in it. The body of the dreaming sleeper nourished into existence by it for centuries, against the mind. Habitat, the motive, still lingered in them in the peculiar way which conveys loneliness bearable when necessity demands.
To sing the train into light, they remained uncertainly on the pavement, shuttered and half-derelict, nothing in common, not even memories. Benign figures, like bells coupling to make the world match her movements and her gestures, which can no longer contain the hideous dilation of the heart.
A few poppies, gently scattered in monumental clusters, scarlet as radishes, heretical and intoxicating as scenery on a stage. She has let herself be dragged about in a strange night land in its autumn as surely as obedience to the wisdom of their old language, whose core, eaten away, would want something like ashes in every useless direction.
Rain outside, and flowers. Without knowing why.
Nothing, nothing given. Just the view from the window, the road, the brilliant sky, the sleeping swan and falling blade, her vanity and voice in fiery pillars of dust. Impossible to distinguish the common colors of things, except darkness and some broken glass when the atmosphere and the streets flowed in submissive streams to the swarming of bones. Of baggage on a train.
And in the forest we await the end, ashamed for the earth. To undress and bathe with night as a nimbus, with fire the prison of the body. Our weary way with resonance and tears, utterly exhausted, up the slope right into the very heart of it, whatever condition awaits the dead.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 6:16 PM
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