Sunday July 30 11:26pm

Good evening, still the correct day, ready to sputter out.
Water. The cave-drip condense on the inside of your throat. Alongside the walkers. Cultivating swimmers, divers, drinkers, lovers who seek a concretization of the cleansing wash in their hearts. Water. Heritage, family in liquid form. Fills in the letters, pooling in the double grottos of W, spilling over the rounded escarpment and giving rush to the river passing through the heart of a, drips off the cross of t like the encirling drips along the edge of a rainy umbrella, gathers in the cupping hand at the base of e, slides down in silky drops along the stem of r. Water. I gather some and surrender it to you: my history, my past in all its errors and glories, the most minute portion of my composition. Drink.

Sunday July 30th 1:11 am.

Morning/evening and other ties that bind. Waking, there is a sense of dizzying elongation, a returning to the self, but Proust told you that already. Sleeping, a gathering, a bundling up of sticks and leaves. Pretend that you are a branch, hanging over Champes Elysees, just asleep.
The play: a long, smooth production, finely tuned, with full extension, production of the phallus, a performance of fraud. Masks of grotesque unification, the dance of lifts and shoves. Was this a dream I had? Do I even dream anymore? In the long stalks of the field, a moist gravy of leaf and mud, there,the perfect morning, the perfect unbalanced vision. Can eyes see what the eyes make contact with? Will one find the other? Can anything be gained? And then again, the leaves stir and suddenly the crowd begins to understand what the meaning of manifest is. Can the vision appear? Puff of smoke wave of wand magic words: instead, false mirrors that lift the true visions up and away, behind the shroud, there, off-stage to be enveloped in something close to blind silence, beyond the reach of gaze or applause. Shake the tin sheets and formulate a storm or song. Open mouths, unbind the nagging note: sing!
If morning was morning and night was night the universe would be in order. The moon surrenders itself to its duty to water. It undertakes the task of intimidation. A drain, a pipe, the first primitive distancing device.
What is a question? What can an answer be or become? What is the name given to the space between? Vision.
The chap chap chap of my typewriter that I carried outside to sit in the grass.
Nostalgia? Not one bit. I won't have it I won't. And I don't reconstitute people in this way. Are you an artifact of nostalgia? No. You are you. Especially, specifically, and particularly you.
Disintegration. If all letters are dispatched it will all make perfectly-non sense. I wake.
The smash of bottles breaks it all. I forget and am lost.
I extend a hand to the delineated void.


Saturday, July 29th 2:40 am.

Good evening spilling into morning.
It seems like rain and rain like seems it does. A blanket of rain, a white sheet.
Rain, washing fresh a clean palette. What does it mean?
White, blank, dense, (bland?) sheet. Pressing impatiently at its corners.
Rain. Make it new. Leave it empty. What does one find in that emptiness? Desire. Form desiring content. Rain: wet with desire. The excitement that characterizes unfulfilled desire. A movie screen, intimidating, virtually humming with density, moaning with desire. The film plays and the screen seems to sigh, soften its edges. The reel, the turning reel, the superfiscial sound, the haunting distance of space. When and where? How and who? The wheel, the turning wheel, a mechanism of desire, comes to a stop, has no further use upon fulfillment. Stop. Dead. Nothing more to say. At home and a very unsteady home it was, was a meeting of water and rock, both spilling upon each other, back and forth, never winning, never losing. How can anything matter? At night, waking up middle of the night, watching the giant ships' lights pausing along their routes. Can I climb aboard, pass backwards in time, travel forward in space? Where is success and failure? What can you say? The sun, the sounds, the sun, heavy sun. Is the weight of the sun balancing on the scale that measures my embarassment? How can another opportunity arise?
The colour of the eyes. Pause. What was that? The wine glass at my side and the light that never goes out. Say it and you won't become it. Keep silent and follow yr nose.
The sound. The disquieting sound of desire. The rain is falling and there is no relief in sight. Looking, one can see the city disappear; or: it was never there, only in imagination. Because: that's all it is. What is the name? Don't say it.
1) The silence of night.
2)The breeze that speaks, but conveys no messages for me.
3) Is it all coming up or going down? what is the best way to digest?
4) Falling off the train of sense. Lost it. Oh where are you?
On the corner. Bus stop cheapest way home. Hadn't really eaten all morning. Dropped off and left alone. I smoked a cigarette and sucked back the greasy spoon, waiting.
In those days. Those days.
Let's close this off. Let's tie that noose.
Can we all walk along together for awhile?