Monday, February 05, 1996

February 5

And all that, and comes to nothing, against life as against death. With temptations the result of severe grief, like a cannon, an iron barrier between these painful interventions, hours and more hours, and on and on, centuries against centuries, along its periphery of remorse. Memory intended to compensate for disorder in that neighborhood, the loss of our true companions on earth in a kind of waiting in the streets of an unfamiliar city, an enormously discouraging mirage encircled by floating ashes. As if to suspect that there were more pathetic disarmed things swimming away in a bucket of blood. Hair, skin, bone, calling itself human, leaning upon each other for short moments, the only available form of release in the twilight states. In this compulsively bleeding region. Severed shapes and ragged pieces, trying to swim, fainting towards their own interior, dropping like useless ballast in uninterrupted motion, down asphalt streets and sinking houses, down into the trees, into the forest where the death-centers flare briefly, memories of ancient betrayals, tiny dreams of suffocation worn smooth by millions of footsteps, the wakes of many ships from many harbors. This violence takes place in darkness, the shadows of dark eyes under helmets, a violence promising the restitution of movement with extraordinary vigor, a seizure degenerated into the famous not-very-complicated system of gears, merely by treatment of the imagination, somehow congealing its too-mobile fibers, a constant metaphor of qualities and movements, universal substitutes for all, a single string which still vibrates, urgently wanting discharges itself. Simultaneously subordinant and dominant, outstripped in subjecting each subjugated territory to the long-awaited birth of a fleshless body. All limits have been passed, dominated and transformed in the same way, subtle predators having fainted, leaving a dead weight upon the fingers, the stench of man’s sojourn on earth. Operative metaphors penetrated, fragmented, the forest and the body buried in it moving on separate pivots, altering the pre-recorded future.

Only compromise survives. No compromise is possible.

Better to fall than voluntarily vacate the immense difficulty of an unaccustomed task. Satisfied, almost, to be appalled. Repugnant and difficult to understand, familiar objects emerge in dawn’s light. The museum of lost species. Few things are more difficult than to accept a crippling lie with the absolute certainty of words. The hills and the trees and the sea. Turned by instinct away from the site.

A reckless dose of falsehood and evasion almost immediately suppressed, remedied, by the exclusion of the actual limits, withdrawn from the recording process of perception, as a parasite of a body on the brink. Insatiable greed and ignorance as synonyms for form and maturity in a formless age. Like a bullet towards its target simply accepted as document. Exemplary in the way it maintains desire with absolute precision. The contours of the landscape marked by ceremonies, by a choir of angels (doctors were suspicious), angels only as an element in the transmission of error. The ancient moral architecture supporting itself on a war-like underground rising-up of all the bones of ignorance that pilot us along over fallen trees and piles of rubble. Pale figures in white bandages. All the tongues are falling. Nothing to stand as a barrier against the nourishing plague, only the body which is remade through the rout and ruin.

A culture built on weariness, stifled with narcotic boundaries, boundaries invested from within, whole novels of a single word, blood where milk is lacking. Closer to an immemorial fall to all that is offered: altered obscure originating configurations of useless images serving the great loss. Scraping around in a sorrow-driven form of an abundance of words. Setting out once more in their coffins across the landscape like shrapnel. The secret of the old human story in the midst of ten thousand dreams after Hegel lost all trace. Camphor from the dead in all the directions of accident.

The morning wash in cold water. The dangers of an irresolute attention, satisfaction which ruins the body, vulgar grimace in the flesh and then, reluctant, turn away. Every object resists becoming, not utility, but beauty. Any opposition, any detour, property massively in motion, to dispossess, to organize dead life, what is desired with what is hated. The sight of evil submitted to be quietly led, with observation and language only, deprived of recourse, an end to its secret, liberated but long since mastered. Long since supplanted by the public display of its organs and elements, the magnetizing fancy with which penetration will be mutual. The whole earth passing over to the dead in an iron cage, an empty power, a field of death. Enamored, impotent and silenced, harvest moves a little nearer and all the dead lie down under one sacrament, no geography but pure state itself in the streaming of pleasure. Anticipating us with transport from our familiar lifetime, baptized without choice and fitted to a frame, mere raft of flesh and bones from the cellar to the roof. Hung in clusters to see what moves them so, so as not to forget. Balloons of metal through villages of ether. The living reigned over by the dead, still reproducing the features of the human face like frost upon a window. As cool to speech as stone. Flowers to keep the eyes from going awkward. It shivers in a pillar of soot and scrapings. Nothing left but to lose the world, the problem of life outside the body, the central position at which human beings become flesh.

The sun dissolves stars out of respect for this central feeling, so tangled and its general beauty rendered as fiction superceding faith, as the agent of socially-defined power. The fits and starts, all the twitching that is seized or avenged. An exchange of territory through centuries, a minor artery to a fictitious country down a steep stairwell. A dialogue of shadows in a relationship of domination. Ignorance beheld until it bursts the heart. A point which is precisely what we are searching for. To put this world down, like a bundle, and walk away. Coals fallen from a rolling load. Flowers put away. Slate and pencil and darkness. Conscious fingers cease to pluck the stars. This beloved blame.

The empty space towards which we unfurl in a perpetual state of abdication. This overwhelming place in contact with the floor (just imagine how we are hanging on). Prostrate, amorphous, badly shoved-up as ever. This skull, by dint of shaking. Ego, in a better world. All those women who talk so well, they have travelled the mistaken route, having failed to confirm some polar expiation scarcely worth the toil. Self-preservation, here, the pleasure that is wasting its time. The laughter and the whisper, this useless body seeps away across fields, woodlands, rivers of blood which overflow from the symbiosis which inevitably structures the limits of the world, the world and the whole starry galaxy. What is living and what is dead

The mourner reaches to the sky, dissolves, and in its place blooms the not-yet-fully-born, piling stone upon stone, Attilla’s vegetation. Neither the time nor the place nor the circumstances will match these cries.