Tuesday, February 17, 2009

New: They waited at the treeline for their dog’s return. (by JKD)

‘Intimacy’is as abstract as ‘car’ or ‘cataract’, this graph is a series of lines in b & w. If colored, like a pie chart, would it make more condensation of the meaning?: Hopeless. Hopping. A to-and-fro is like rummaging in an old bag for loose sugar (B. Hillman’s title). Books I miss. The piano? No. Today it is the girl next door. Samba or salsa. At least not heavy metal, the curve ball of clashing guitar strings. What bound us together? Gather the last lapped drops up, sprint. These borders are others, not mind, which (whose?) hands pressed against. I likened space to captivity. Running in place or carrot-chasing. We could all be gerbils infecting hosts with cowpox. Muscle removed, she was hollowed. But only there, where you pressed your thumb to the absented. Presence is less solid than expected. Wake to the body gone, in the kitchen, no closer than when city, state, country, continents, planets apart. What was so blue about her fingernails? A trail through the forest automatically pilots us back to Gretel. “Here little, here, little…” When is calling into the void’s dark fruitless? I stand on the horizon and look backwards. Will I capture the world in a glance? Poor Eurydice would have liked to know. Rugged underworlds, what resembles this assemblage of bricks, luggage, language? My mother’s lines, still, and if she cannot go on interminably does that give our conversations more meaning? A list of to-dos, questions about taxes. Where to hide the money now the banks are broke? Old lady’s socks are full of holes leaking gold. They say 746,235 francs were never recovered. But who decided those bills should be invalidated. Bodies of paper, human form. The skeletal solidity like stone (chalky) (limestone) in la Madeleine reminds me that nothing about the museum will conjure up those spirits. Talking of glass, this one’s broken.

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