Distribution Automatique

Wednesday, July 2

9/27/86 Pops Out

In order to think fast enough to hear a
bit of the oceanic tide surrounding the
undulations of the immediate weather allow
for fragments of unthought of dreams to
intrude into the "part songs" repeated vaguely
over and over for a long interval. These
gray memories have pictures attached to them.
They don't mind that the image is made
of dots. Debunking is much less a part of
it than all the pulsing suggestions following
the recitation of a dream. I decided to
wait just as long as it would be
necessary (through dances and long
lectures on the law- I mean *thousands*
of hours, years of this) to one day stumble
onto a moment by accident, vaguely
deciding to approach a dinner on a lawn,
a vast estate held back and also enclosing
bushes of knotty paragraphs, and pages
can eventually become short for this. Say
I was lightly following a g wave, say
every normal sensation would also be
invoked, a short story in Bombay, a
sincere friendship grows in humor and
breadth, like all things at times cracks and
zigzags, a naturally contemporary phenomenon-
the question was how to avoid thinking too
much about what happened briefly a moment
before, a cutting edge of time looms
forward into my plans- then again,
nobody asked me to think like this. Total
recall, like immersion in a
succession of pieces by Chopin
exists in analogy to temporal planes,
and tries to find parallel worlds in
old movies and mounds
of print examined in art history documents
and photographs, Not only the present is
enriched by the lineage of the past, but
voices can become pauses, over a lifetime,
to allow a dense saturation of life
to hover briefly around a culture. What
comes bursting out from inside these words is
life, not a prescription for living, but
the last image in a succession of images.
LIFE magazine cut into
hundreds of collages and painted in
large panels in paths of color
more than only predicted by deep reds and
oranges and a vertical slash. Here was orange,
here was the truck. The day was the
thought and the thought was green. These
records piled in the water were always
played. Silence never stopped either, so
it could easily be found. Words spoken,
jettisoned from origin can also be created.

The child's desire to endlessly regret, to
remember, to suffuse. The fire's light remembered
a thousand times, "a barrel organ carolling across a
golden street in the city as the sun sinks low."
Seated by the record player, listening to the magic
sounds repeat, the willing suspension of disbelief
the disbelief of reality itself.

In order to hear a bit of the guesswork read
within the blur, not between the lines
hear the self of all that being is: to
have a bit of the sun among tides.They don't
sing that make a thing of things. Searching the
heart of marching drums, confounding the rhythms
of following and beating.

The consciousness of stream
this illusion
that by tracing some succession of events or words
a sense of the overall pattern
will emerge; a river does not
flow like that- you must get on a boat
and ride it out at least a part of the
way- whatever it is is ahead-
you don't have to sink into it
but you do have to ride it through.
And when you get out of the boat
to view the river from dry land.
Whatever you think *is* the river.

[This is explosive:]