March 4
This particular form is crucial, militates against analysis. A story of confusion, undirected, certainly considered delinquent. Letters that endlessly repeat themselves across rubble and scattered ashes, a shameful display, dangerous and necessary, necessary. Formulation is finally exhausted enough to eradicate memory, until the blood speaks most directly, drops down into the recesses, down through the stark columns of figures being severed with familiar violence. Night falls and history returns, to be deprived of actual possessions, to evade all forms anchored in the prohibition against fragmentation and collapse. Repeatedly to return to the same vast, empty spaces within circles of refusals and prohibitions, towards roaming desire which cannot be denied.
Shame, the hook, hanging empty, trampled in the dust by documentary evidence, by the simple expedient of flight. The stern demands of moral conduct, the traditional language of allegory, the moral and literary climate, exemplary conduct, scandal, the passing moment, the assault of objects under the pretense of prayer: leave them all behind without a thought, and not be quieted with answers.
Obscenity and indecency are not confined among ambiguous allusions and representations of moral deformity. The majority of perpetrators minimize or even deny unruly conduct and brutal realism (have often), to the great satisfaction of all the academicians. The peculiar tangle of facts and fiction and the subconscious desires they share open up a number of problems in such a way that only death can deliver the heart from the chain. No documents inform us without intent to defraud. The actual proceedings need little comment: we are flagrant violators of law and decency, guilty of violence, theft and murder, capable of infinite patience and relentless self-criticism, a characteristic disparity pursuing identical aim. Poised, cunning, ready for the moment, the door opening into an empty street. Enlarged rather than diminished. In this conglomeration, beautiful.
Memory drowns me, like the sea within the circumference of a single brain, some soft place within our own paradise diminished. Hindered, haunted, perishing, still to be explained. Heavens left absent till sunrise takes us back, a mourner walking among children. To live for this. To rise and go, unspeakable, home. To wind the incarnation bell in a country with nothing, to labor long and hard against the restrictive technicality of death’s local revolution. To find the species disappeared, transported wild to the graves, and start all over again, and to have patience.
Debout, assis, à genoux. Zero at the bone.
The privilege to live, the warrant to report. Present at, participating in hallucinations and delusions and anomalies. Blood stained uniforms. Notes on everything, underneath everything, an improbable depth to express absence where I found her, one night, first alone, then saw everything annihilated, humanity in ruins and their names forgotten. Finished creatures, departed, fictitious, repealed from observation. To these desolate territories as an equal, as a judge. Into possession of them at last, disturbing their nights by singing, all energies restored. The breath contracts in worldly indifference, stammering, while women (it could not possibly be otherwise) lie in darkness with open eyes, suspended in a silent ceremony of mourning, for the other. Returning through thickets of hatred to the deepest chasm, with eyes closed and hands adequate as drums to tombs. Nameless fathoms weary of description, a certain regret which utters and haunts, to possess past the instant. Another loneliness which lifts us from the ground, not admitting of the wound, a list of names incised in the resonant bodies. Strangers to ourselves, we are lifted up as if from the depths of a well.
Shadows walk upon the hills, the whitewashed wall that bounds the room. The ceiling moving, sweeping aloft and breaking in the night until it seems to be moving slowly against the sky, on its nocturnal surface round the tower, a flock of dark birds. Our usual business caught helpless at her usual place in the corner by the light of the lamp, that whole ghostly latitudeless place, unaltered. Nowhere only somehow home.
This particular form is crucial, militates against analysis. A story of confusion, undirected, certainly considered delinquent. Letters that endlessly repeat themselves across rubble and scattered ashes, a shameful display, dangerous and necessary, necessary. Formulation is finally exhausted enough to eradicate memory, until the blood speaks most directly, drops down into the recesses, down through the stark columns of figures being severed with familiar violence. Night falls and history returns, to be deprived of actual possessions, to evade all forms anchored in the prohibition against fragmentation and collapse. Repeatedly to return to the same vast, empty spaces within circles of refusals and prohibitions, towards roaming desire which cannot be denied.
Shame, the hook, hanging empty, trampled in the dust by documentary evidence, by the simple expedient of flight. The stern demands of moral conduct, the traditional language of allegory, the moral and literary climate, exemplary conduct, scandal, the passing moment, the assault of objects under the pretense of prayer: leave them all behind without a thought, and not be quieted with answers.
Obscenity and indecency are not confined among ambiguous allusions and representations of moral deformity. The majority of perpetrators minimize or even deny unruly conduct and brutal realism (have often), to the great satisfaction of all the academicians. The peculiar tangle of facts and fiction and the subconscious desires they share open up a number of problems in such a way that only death can deliver the heart from the chain. No documents inform us without intent to defraud. The actual proceedings need little comment: we are flagrant violators of law and decency, guilty of violence, theft and murder, capable of infinite patience and relentless self-criticism, a characteristic disparity pursuing identical aim. Poised, cunning, ready for the moment, the door opening into an empty street. Enlarged rather than diminished. In this conglomeration, beautiful.
Memory drowns me, like the sea within the circumference of a single brain, some soft place within our own paradise diminished. Hindered, haunted, perishing, still to be explained. Heavens left absent till sunrise takes us back, a mourner walking among children. To live for this. To rise and go, unspeakable, home. To wind the incarnation bell in a country with nothing, to labor long and hard against the restrictive technicality of death’s local revolution. To find the species disappeared, transported wild to the graves, and start all over again, and to have patience.
Debout, assis, à genoux. Zero at the bone.
The privilege to live, the warrant to report. Present at, participating in hallucinations and delusions and anomalies. Blood stained uniforms. Notes on everything, underneath everything, an improbable depth to express absence where I found her, one night, first alone, then saw everything annihilated, humanity in ruins and their names forgotten. Finished creatures, departed, fictitious, repealed from observation. To these desolate territories as an equal, as a judge. Into possession of them at last, disturbing their nights by singing, all energies restored. The breath contracts in worldly indifference, stammering, while women (it could not possibly be otherwise) lie in darkness with open eyes, suspended in a silent ceremony of mourning, for the other. Returning through thickets of hatred to the deepest chasm, with eyes closed and hands adequate as drums to tombs. Nameless fathoms weary of description, a certain regret which utters and haunts, to possess past the instant. Another loneliness which lifts us from the ground, not admitting of the wound, a list of names incised in the resonant bodies. Strangers to ourselves, we are lifted up as if from the depths of a well.
Shadows walk upon the hills, the whitewashed wall that bounds the room. The ceiling moving, sweeping aloft and breaking in the night until it seems to be moving slowly against the sky, on its nocturnal surface round the tower, a flock of dark birds. Our usual business caught helpless at her usual place in the corner by the light of the lamp, that whole ghostly latitudeless place, unaltered. Nowhere only somehow home.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 6:33 PM
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