Distribution Automatique

Saturday, April 26

Thoughts I could communicate to others, complete thoughts, that would not be confusing, would have to be similar in their construction of a sentence and would be subject to the same dynamics. They would contain a certain substance, a heaviness, set into motion against a receptive constellation of transforming elements, like an object dropped into a moving body of water or a chemical, like an acid, that would change it. But is it possible not to use language in this way, to ignore its laws and still speak? The dadaists found magic in the observation of the process of transposition. But how is it possible to build a poem around a fleeting thought? How can I restrain myself from transforming the language of thought into language that contains an image of what the mind and eye put together every day? If I stop short of saying it as I speak I might find myself muttering poetry.

Oct 17

The best thing is to be able to say in cases like this is "that was then and this is now." Although the mind can play games with fantasies of the relationship that's "there," to assert the truth, the opposite of the proposition being mostly true, then you can see it in "perspective," it being the taste of insanity, it isn't good for me. The main problem with the writing here I think is the "lead-ins" to the next written words, and a certain memory coincides with just that- I'm not sure why A decided not to meet- there could be something unpleasant or pleasant in that, I don't know. But for a long time the desire to "see" someone can become an obstacle to writing. The problem I have to figure out first is not what not to write about, a trick I often use, but, what prevents me from creating a lead-in to the next writing. Writing that contains that lead-in. Reading to find out what's undone. A string of beads needs a string. OK. If the string is the thought process itself- write down the thought itself and see how the narrative can correspond to a symbolic narrative- a transposed or transposable narrative- like taking a certain thought and changing the key. Sometimes, in that state, the accessibility is made possible of some strange power, which fires up the muse, which adds more energy to it, more amplitude, more depth. The thought of transposing thought. That juxtaposed against the theater of social existence. Alone with your body, its environment and your thought. The beach and the gulls and your receptivity to sound, the mind silently moving from itself to outside itself. Anxiety trips you up. A code transposed: not the literal thought that insists on its presence in the mind but the names of the objects of sight and memory coming up, swelling up, conjured up to take their place.But their rhythms have to be brought together, an arabesque or a period of counter-point. What else is there but cacaphony? This is one of the most knotty problems- how to convey cacaphony, the inevitable swelling of noise and confusion descending against harmony- even that harmony is forced and borders on lack of resolution. One possibility is to bend and sway- gestures easily adopted to fear. Another is to move as closely as possible to the origin of the sounds, immobile and silent so as not to upset or destroy the reality of that sequence. True, your own thoughts are the stream- how possibly disturb what they really are- they are what they have to be. But concentration and meditation suggest another possibility. Idea: A. writing a music story and my writing the word study.

October 23

I would have to make a poem out of all the things I can't get myself to do. Where the fear comes in. A light blinks on and off with the words of that action- sell the desk. (the silence). The great thing is that I am still denying structure enough to feel enough urgency to make the mind move.The outside things are infinitely heavier.The mind moves.I awake and I hear somebody screaming "Police, police" and I thought "I am safe, I am safe." I didn't want to help. But the mind is a light thing, it moves across. One way signals.The mind translates the mind. But furniture is so heavy. What do I do with the big desk? Time is slower and slower within the imagination and things get heavier outside, the laundry is so fucking heavy and bulky desk and the pen itself. But the outside sounds are heavy and the pleasure comes from the outside slowly and even more slowly the outside comes from outside.The whole goddamn cast of characters have to be in balance. When not its frightening.Somethiing in the essential construction leaves spaces for the time between. Fair is fair but you better look out for yourself.Light is warm as waiting. Magically that's the carribean burning. I let you know or ask me. Colored paper burning, goes up in flames- there's plenty of room for that. Jay Gatsby, a lot of money, it may take him backwards but words are too large. The other language. Serious, deadpan, what next. Itching, what? Deep-rooted means not getting that, turn it around its still there. Something I know I don't know what memories are but an accumulation of details.Time is reversed as such- as you know these details. They may or may not offend you- each doesn't know the other's there. The idea of abundance. That is clear as no central image, no hesitation of abstraction, no peeking over the shoulder to be sure about what's there. Be very quiet, avoid the pronoun "you" are there.That's one way to take care of it. Thousands of other pillows for you to put your head on- a book, a conversation, air, creation forgives all that. Equal means a fight. So you see what was extracted as occult- it's blue. That can go on for a long time. Not that what you're sure of is not to be tripped up with what you're tripped up with. Your system has to get slower and faster- light shines through the cracks in the holes but something always keeps you dreaming. Their is a tiny voice that sometimes is off-key. The easiest thing is to go into language like it's a department store when you know what you want but don't stop to stay around. Something like that is always happening, you have to assume that. You have to assume it has to go faster or slower according to the route of minus one. We're all the same where that comes in. Like a memory with no assigned space. It was just there- not just for window dressing but that is the point of the whole thing. A condensed amount of time is what I needed. I was living a lot of the time for whatever there was of that. Don't have to like every word. Speak about television. Literary, erudite, feminine, mavelous, tough you appropriate what's there. Also language has to fit the emotions but that fit is easy. Harder to slip into and out of history. Such dense armatures. But I could anticipate several, flip through the many pictures, the timed delays pushing the whole system into highs and lows. Her brows.Talk about formalistic- the book was ok.Can you keep a secret? There's something I can't tell you yet. It's not an appeal.The laws of the lazy sleeper are generous. So and so's Johnny Guitar. Or made the remark.
But to move places with emotions is a kind of acting. You may expect what was really happening was different. But was that what that was? Having several notebooks for various occasions may contribute to some social use of my time but the room, my eyes, the flaking wall in the bathroom are convinced I have readers. Disappearing, invisible to me as I am to them, the content playing hide and seek with the bed. Am I as certain as that? You bet.
An anxiety attack and the rub is boredom. But there were rapturous moments: there were free light winds against soft long hair, there were light pleasures and dark questions, abysses of pain and loneliness of almost no light. Its enough to say that some light filters through. It's only writing. Something to occupy you for a moment. An exposure: five women. A longer exposure and the paper gradually darkens with details. An exposure? A long, light suddenly darkens.That tells you how to do it. Everything is so distant, -everything-. There is light you can see through.You know what I meant by that. I meant actual events. But the the events disappear and there is no event. Eventually. "I guess I'll talk to you eventually." Object constancy.
Suddenly it all just stops and I'm free- caught in the shower. Acted blindly. Take notice what's implied. It's a hidden code message for you.

A precise idea of what you are going to do before you do it. Zen? Sine Qua Non? Of what? So much of being draws me to its opposite. Endless pools of self-reflection, pain, the domain of death.