Distribution Automatique

Tuesday, June 10


When we love something one of the
earliest things we want to do with
it is to destroy it. This is usually
done among civilized people by means
of a ritualistic performance, whether in
a theatre or the living room (the most
local theatre). In fact, quite civilized
people have been known to accidentally
(and not so accidentally) do all
forms of destruction of their neighbors-
a fact which is also ritualistically
announced and theatrically recreated
almost continuously. It is all nothing
more than the grand opera of love,
which accords itself a very unhealthy
measure of sheer, exuberant destructiveness.
Is this the glee which arises in seeing
a symbol of life convincingly portrayed
to our always disbelieving psyches?
Isn't the by-product of such
gladness the happy pat on the back
which sends our friend reeling across
the floor, the event reproducing itself
later as a backache?


"The flesh is tired and I've read
all the books." (Mallarme). Where
does that illusion come from that when
you're reading a good book, and just
about to finish it- that the whole
business- reading, writing, "life" (as we
"think" of it)- seems vindicated- and all
of them- the writings and the book- seem
worthwhile? Good books all applaud
each other while making the reader feel
quite alarmed and reassured to be
here where all this is


Don't worry, Sam, you chose the
waiting. Did you forget to
mention the voluptuous pleasures of
those extended preludes? At such
moments you are aware
(the cat called it exaltation)
of the shape of the whole poem-
the entire future poem- at a glance.
Everything hangs in suspension. You
are no longer so abruptly removed
from your earlier work.

The question, as always , is where
is the motivation? What is to be the
ambience, what is the reader to do
with it (another might say, what has
the reader to do with it). Yes, she has been
called the double, an accomplice, and
at times does function as a spy.
She has taken the time to include
you, so better shave, shower, brush
your hair and be rested, and have an
engaging attitude. In fact, now is the
time to remind you that you spent
the best part of the day yesterday
walking the New York streets enjoying
a rare more or less humidity
free day. It can be exhausting,
even to roam around
a few bookstores and fight a kind
of heat that makes life's purpose
be reduced to a form of escape.
My friend reminded me that it is
always war out here- so if
there's no time to forget it now
there never will be.

So, Sam, never torture yourself
about endlessly sustaining the
idle gait which takes you on walks near
the Muse's approving gaze so really
you can always remember
the last- and anticipate the
next rendezvous so much more enjoyably
if you learn to accept some hours
filled with questions about
your beloved. Yes, I know you
can't remember the last time she
smiled towards you- I remember she
leaves with an elegant flourish
whenever she wants to. No sense
begging the moon or clouds or even
the trustworthy sun to listen to
her name. They won't answer you,
but will only stare out at you in
commiserating silence. I remember
that you told me that she tricked
you into believing that by simply
chanting the names of the gods or
some Heraclites proverb about long ago dried
up rivers in the ancient sun you would
stand recognized. Oh, Sam, this
was no lie, you fooled yourself.
You think you are alone and
can prove it, but you're not.
You think you don't know the
words of your poem but you say
them every morning as you button
your shirt, tighten your belt. take your
wallet and keys and lunge for the
door. You're no slave- and yet you
are because you insist on equating
feeling with words like "solitude"-
let's face it, Sam, you are who you
are because you've known what *not* to
say- and how loud to say what
you must- and to grant the willing
questioner a sincere
smile, a quick goodbye- and a
few needed moments to themselves.


Remember that there are a few
pages which are in this time period
in the bound notebooks (small white
ones and blue abstract patterns).Get a
knife and cut these out and make a separate notebook.