Discovery: In a Library.

I found this written somewhere:

in the dream there is always the terror of discovering your own image in the mirror; while awake the terror is replaced by pleasure in the double, comfort in the other, and recognition of the fact that there exists a me reflected back onto another who operates like a me. The mirror, the terror and the dream all shatter in this waking world: life begins to follow the transparent shadow-law of dream.
Consider the images dumped out of the head like firewood from a rusted wheelbarrow. These are the basis for fire, for sustained heat.

That was all that was written.
The rest of the page is blank.


4am Sunday Morning

Let me tell you about jinx. It works like this: it perhaps begins with a casualty list, things that suddenly die or are about to die. They get hemmed in, start to cough perhaps, distract us, remove us for long periods of time. Jinx is crisis of faith, a first attempt to swallow a void that needs to be digested to move on. But then, the right angle of attack, the void shifts from negative to positive charge, it become you, starts a foundation greater than ever. Jinx is the beginning of the path.



In this moment of generosity, give me this opportunity to share this knowledge with you:
Imagine a morning and a morning that never existed except for in my experience.
Imagine me in the image, tied into a morning that you create. Nothing there but me and your imagination.
Let me then remind you that light is. This is what morning is. Turn your imagination into light. Turn your imagination into morning.
So there was: first me, then your imagination, then imagined me, then imagined light. Each the genesis for the other.
The imagined light hits my imagined face and crosses over onto my real face, the face that you are trying to touch with your imagination.

What games we are playing!

Your imagination is suppressing the receding chill and the moistness under the soles of my feet that were mine. The sense that was only sensed by me with no one else in the world to sense along with me. But that's not a matter for anyone's imagination. In a silent way, a revolution rumbling, a battle for true sense. Can an imagined image resist, overthrow without a sound?
The song on the radio which was meant for me, your imagination gives it to me, as I play it in my head the way I was meant to hear it.
A voice that was mine, dispersing out, generous: a voice that is everywhere, belonging to others, stretching out beyond anyone's imagination.
A curve in the road, bending sound, making shadow, challenging memory. We can only see ships' lights drifting past the bay in the dark. But we keep seeing them, again and again.

Smoke on the hills. Imagination can't compete against memory that is dying but wants to live.
Night comes back, the moistness in the grass pulling down at us.