Midnight Lunch and a Spring Derivé

A fragment from a story without a working title.

He was swung into The Land of Night by his toes, gently he was flipped right-side-up with his blanket still covering him. It was as dark outside the blanket as his room. The air was cool and pressed close to the ground. The little boy pulled his blanket from him and found that he was standing in the stars. The grass at his feet was cool, and the ground was warm, and the dew soaked his socks. The sky above the stars was black as pitch. Slowly the star lit ground came into focus in the misty light…

The Vertical Man

The vertical man / The vertical man

is a sky scraping syllogism, / is a deep well of light,

bloated with books / dense with understanding

who screams like an animal / who speaks with transcendent artfulness

into a bottomless chasm. / to the fog of time itself.

two cats (not my own though)

From Watt, By Samuel Beckett

Some see the flesh before the bones, and some see the bones before the flesh, and some never see the bones at all, and some never see the flesh at all, never never see the flesh at all.

From The Fourth Notebook, Franz Kafka

"The generations die as do the moments of your life... It's the old joke. We hold the world fast and complain that it is holding us. In a certain sense you deny the existence of this world. You explain life as a state of rest, a state of rest in motion."

A Fragment from Aurora

I can't stand at the threshold any longer. I slump from the weight of my hat. I wait for a word, a word that's late. The stars are beginning to come out so I sit down into the wall next to the door and wait. The house I sit against is my father's, who's in a great excitement right now, he thinks he's dying. Father is not feigning his illness, although his nerves aren't good, but Mother whips into such a frenzy, so infectious that even a fit of coughing warrants the surgeon, who doesn't come so quick anymore. So, thats why I'm here, hands double-fisted crouching against the the wall of my Father's house waiting for a man to come, proscribe a placebo and permit me some peace.

It's dusk and the room above me has hushed with the surgeon's entrance. A festival seems to hang in the quiet still air, the moment feels ripe. I slip round the corner down the street towards the square. A shore of warm light greets me that bathes the stone there, and I move with the tide of night rising from the sleeping houses onto the piazza. No one is here so I set down and wait, a friend is bound to pass by, tonight. There isn't a breeze, and any movement would seem slow, every step would seem as if in a dream, if a friend were to emerge from the night in the streets.

_______________________________

I stroll down the most touristic promenade in one of those rare golden August moments when not a soul is in sight. I turn down a lane to look for compatriots at window sills. At the first corner, Chiara has her chin flat on her window's ledge staring out dead eyed bored, beyond. It takes only a breath, a sigh in the stillness to lift her away from from ennui. She disappears from the sill out onto the street into arm and arm with me, and without so much as a word, we set off. She isn't cold like the approaching night, she holds those last rays of twilight close to me. We are walking to the river and for the elegant parks on the hills.

Fragmented Form

Our dear narrator is losing control, the protagonist has brought the dramatic twist ahead four chapters, this book is falling apart.

... Not to say Father's feigning this illness, that his nerves aren't good, but Mother whips into a fever so infectious that even a fit of coughing warrants the surgeon, who doesn't come as fast as he once did. So, thats why I'm here, hands double-fisted crouching against the wall of my home waiting for a man to come and proscribe a placebo and permit me some peace. It's dusk now and the room above me has suddenly hushed with the surgeon's entrance...

a patina of memory or a story told in silence

The greasy but neat linoleum, stone? Green glass covered lights make for an atmosphere of moisture despite the dryness in the air. The residents match the décor, nothing changes, and a particularly ornery sentiment pervades the hall.

Each neighbor plays their role easily, after decades of bickering, drama is theatrical and perfunctory. The elevator stands unused in the stairwell, stubbornly disused? The owners of the gelateria below hurry in and out of their flat all night long. I don’t think they’ve slept in three months. Wires, pipes, gas, telephone, all strapped to the walls that predate such conveniences, run in the crotch between wall and ceiling.

Preamble to a Self Conscious Text or A Room in a Book a Door to a Text

Inside this book is a building. The characters inside this book inside this building are actors. The story that they enact is based on a true story that happened right outside this book, in another building exactly the same as this one.

The Fictional Book

If I were to have written this book then I'm sure it would have stayed put. But as it stands this book is a fiction. Its existence wasn't at all stable, with a tiny crackle the book on the table never was.

... The house he sits against is his father's, who's in a great excitement right now, he thinks he's dying...

He can't stand at the threshold any longer. He slumps from the weight of his hat. He waits for a word, a word thats late. The stars are coming out so he sits down into the wall next to the door, to keep waiting...

art i like

The Cellar

Dipping my head through the darkened doorway into the cool air chilled from the deep cellar below, I turn and sit on the front step. I need reason to go down into the cellar or else my being there is forbidden. The cellar must be filled with trunks and casks and other amazing things but it's been out of bounds forever. I'm too old to believe anymore the story of monsters my brothers tell. I imagine ancient treasures and mysterious discoveries, cool moist airs, and the dead silence of a tomb. I'm too old to believe in mummies and I'm not very afraid of the spiders and mice. I wonder if there are bats that swoop around your head with sharp little squeaks. I wonder if I promise not to make a mess I could go down and take a look.

She says though, that whenever we go down into the basement we always leave a mess, one that she has to clean up. My brothers tell me that they once found a civil war uniform and bayonet. They said that there is a shelf of a thousand different coloured cups and jars and mugs, that there's a wardrobe filled with shelves of sprouted potatoes, and boxes and boxes of ancient mysterious tools, knives, saws, clamps, and magazines. There were thousands of magazines and mountains of newspapers they say. I think I'll die of boredom this summer.

Avarice in Fantasy

Avarice in fantasy tugs you into a spiral of daydreaming reverie. Squash such desires and make the day count, the nights are for dreaming. Also, don't sleep all day or you will drive yourself mad staying up all night. Dreaming all the time will make you too sensitive to the waking world. Also, I'm not sure that the days I've yet to live aren't actually tonights dream.

Sing Sing Sing Sing

Sing sing sing sing, doesn't matter what, just start. Make it something new, something you're not sure about yet, take a risk. Just don't stop, your not making much sense but that doesn't matter it's beautiful. Let all the hanging questions be answered, assume everything for now and build syllogisms, put them into the chorus. Your song is radiant nonsense, ephemeral truth.

The Talk after Samuel Beckett

He couldn't have been much more capable. He had not a trace of wrinkle on his face. He delivered his talk in this way: he inscribed into us a text, or he spoke his mind, or he murmured to us a subtext (in an undertone), or he spoke to us a text, or he spoke to us a subtext (in overtones), or he inscribed his thoughts into our minds, or he murmured to us his text, or his murmur was only in my mind, or he didn't actually deliver his talk at all, or he talked to us in all these ways each one after the other, pausing to breathe between each incantation keeping deliberately quiet.

As For the Rest of Them

As for the rest of them, who are caught in a rut, their vision shut so that only a bit of light shines through. Or we are all completely blind.

At the Horizon's Door

I sit at the horizon's door waiting. And, from the locus of understanding a flash of light illuminates the deepest darkest crevices, and what is most exciting of all, is the plainness of what lies therein.

Bounce Step

He looked back over his shoulder towards the sound of my footsteps and let me pass, carefully shortening his step. A cross walk later he passed me again during the signal. I noticed he walked mostly with his toes with and a little bounce backwards, and as I let him pass I could see that he wanted to look over his shoulder once more but resisted. He stiffened a litte as I passed, thats how I guessed.

Bleached Bone

a weak little frail voice singing in a thin falsetto

clapboard and white washed lapels

without a belt to hang his pants

he wore tennis shoes

Late August

We go to Venice tomorrow, to find the most hidden of all the cafes. A rat with ribs splayed open alighted on the steps of a canal at low tide teeming with insects. An enormous squid has made its way into the flooded Piazza San Marco overnight and has sprayed its ink over the columns of one side of the piazza as it suffocated in the shallow water. Its late August and not one tourist was here to take note.

Bodies

Clothing is architecture, cars are architecture, these we inhabit. We cannot hold them, they are not masks, they are bodies. These are not objects, they are architecture.

Neither the Day Nor the Hour

The final system beyond the locus of understanding

Unknown truths, unhinted hitherto, out of the blue

New paradigm, new aesthetics, limitless horizons.

Creases

Sleepy creases across the cheek

Rubbing the last flecks of dreams from your eyes

The creases lift by the time your ready to face the day.

Ache

Writing can be sublime, but it is much more a wrenching ache. An ache you feel beyond your body. Whatever part of you that moves your feet, flips through your memories, and forms the words meant for your mouth, hurts as you strain to pull words and ideas out of it.

Isolation

That frantic isolation

Drifting on the sea of the living room carpet

Piled high, your voice carries only

as far as the kitchen.

------------ "Sorry, that was a cryptic melange of symbols. I was probing blindly into an otherness, treading a liminal boundary, erecting a vertical syllogism.
------------Excuse me if I forgot all the details ------------ what are they to me anyways, except replaceable?" ------------

Speaking in Time

Rhythms laid down from the throne on a melody crushed when percussed

Look at me with gentle eyes and speak to me softly.

Eternity in a Minute

-------------------------------I think I spoke to you about my dream the other night, it was a steady flicker of pain that seemed to burn the whole night long. I was trapped it seemed in a movie I was watching my self act in where I had forgotten all my lines. I was mute and being asked to speak, and dancing a stuttering dance. Everyone expected me to keep the scene going and tried condescendingly to play along with my fright, the stage and its players would flick smoothly through various arrangements and I only froze more completely, and then the ground became frictionless and an exit impossible. -------------------------------

Melodious Chance

Avarice of fantasy, nightmares of thirst and hunger

Cowardly piping and stuttering dance

Song without melody, form without material

Material without form, Melodious Chance.

Masks, February 20th 2010

Ol'lymphics

In the Air

Everything is evenly warmed, I am only atmosphere

I am a warm wind laying, on top of the bedspread

There is no need to sleep, I am completely at rest

Liminally extant, In the Air.

How do you sleep?

How do you prepare your bed?
How do you keep you sheets clean?
Why are your covers wound into a knot?
What do you keep underneath, is it a comfort is it a pain?
Do you dream? Do you count the hours you lie awake?

My Pictures

The Horizon is a Blade

We have followed our path too far
Infinity is rushing towards us, to cut us down
Like the horizon it seems to be unreachable,
But the horizon is a blade.

Skin

Between pore and pore and pore
On a net, slide
Curving round a bent elbow

A Thread A Skin

Speak in emotions an emotional language
And a language of emotions, infused with language,
Language devoid of emotion a blind faith,
Hidden even from the true believer,

A thread of time a skin of a memory,
Just remembered,
Forgotten,
Leaving a thin trace as it recedes
From the moment,
To a dark crevice,
Where untapped dynamic energies lie dormant.

Nights Devoid of Ease

long long forgotten places
between walls and spaces
dim dusty and damp

forgotten boxes fragrant antiques
dovetailed tables and chairs
well appointed fixtures
in suburbia relegated to
a perimeter out of sight
an interior exurbia

infused with a latent light

img harvest

The Long Long Fall

I’m beginning to feel the long long fall,
I fall backwards, and only see things once they’ve past
The world is not rushing past me, I am rushing past the world,
It is not a wind that blows as I plummet, the air does not move at all,

The world does not move for me, and I cannot move the world,
I can only move myself, and there are others who move with me,
We do acrobatics in the air while in our free fall together,

We cannot see the ground, and try to act as if our fall will last forever,
The house we build in the air is falling with us, it has no foundation at all,
Our young children rush to the ground too, falling beside us.

YVR - SLC

Sorry to have not saved you your seat
I thought it was you who sat beside me,
It feels like I'm dreaming

I deplaned in a daze,
I can hear the air conditioning drying me out,
A customs guard searched my shirt collar for weapons and explosives
three times before letting me go.