At work, he spends hours watching the homeless men wandering up and down the street, gathering sour beer bottles and sleeping under yellow newspapers. At night, nothing waits for him but an uneasy stirring; 4 a.m., waking up in a dreary sweat, foul dreams scouring his memory. These are nightmares that belong to him, he gathers them in the morning, a jealous ownership. Little else to claim, he thinks, adjusting his tie.


The Double

Two hands unfolding and the movement goes through and outward. The Double. Crossing over one another. Two becoming one, one extending into two. The repetition. Replaying of the same images in rapid succession. Mass production. A mirror, dividing an object into perfect symmetry.
Tricks: moving towards the end, but then coming back, scribbling all over oneself, building density, re-interpreting what has come before with what has been reversed, repeated. The waves come heavier and heavier on every return. Two hands crossing over each other, movement tightening inward. Density. Unfolding and moving outward. One dividing into two, two subtracting itself into one. Reversal. Responding to new images thickening in weight. Mass destruction. A mirror, imperfect symmetry, too heavy here, too dark where it should be light. Old images die and new ones twist out; grinding the sight and knowledge into alien dusts to be inhaled. Nothing will ever be the same again, the images keep coming, always foreign, always unsettled. Peering into nothing but scattered leaves, over and over, leaves becoming so bold that a new leaf is formed. Solid, dense, frightening--and new.
I am going to continue, now, keep going, to pursue and be pursued, rubbing my hands together for fire and images. I am going to continue, now, keep going, incantations and curses each taking an opposing side of my tongue, an instrument that operates just like a mirror.
{never forget that "I" am not I; we are talking about mirrors here, never forget that. I hold up a mirror, leaning it outward. Never forget that.}
But beware: the triangle becomes the square, three becomes four, the mirror adds another, smooths out the tension, divides the power. Where the triangle is a blade, the square is a dull old tooth. The mirror can be a tool to divest an object of its power.
Or: walk into the mirror. The person disappears. The mirror, like the tongue, is a tool to precede swallowing. I open my mouth wide in the mirror; what was once there is now gone.
I bite my tongue and, in the pain of the moment, I forget two and recall one again.


Middle of June

Here we are, we've nearing the middle of a month, June, in the middle of the year. So now we need to begin, making a voice that moves forward and back. Sound a voice that both seeks comfort and shuns it. First, settle your larynx--you can do this--then talk about something, someone, a feeling that is coming close but never appears. But always be careful when speaking of apparitions that you do not create one out of nothing. The voice has always been a powerful thing: be cautious.
Start walking along the river with your voice, you know the sun is out, you can feel it on the water and the skin of your voice. We know too--we can feel it in the walls, it shakes below our feet. We are always startled by the force of the sound. This is a voice that seeks to walk, to walk until its feet ache and burn, until it dries out, dead.
The voice can create spells because it is a spell in itself. So, in the middle of things, the voice is at its peak. It pushes apart the two halves but also seals them together.
Be forever cautious.