Distribution Automatique

Tuesday, September 9


Each has one's own accusation to distance themselves from the other.

Freedom implies freedom from capture
but our inner worlds are largely
based on allegories of capture.

I compared the image of the
hunter and the hunted to
the anthropological allegorical
image of the raw and the
cooked. This image puts the situation
at a comfortable distance. We yearn for
the pristine qualities of the raw
while succumbing to the charms of
the cooked. But realistically- and
far more to the point experientially-
we tend to live our lives out in
imagery of the hunters and the hunted,
the search and the prize, the priceless
and the worthless. For us,
the "stakes" actually determine
the type of energy and interpretative
principles we apply to our
experience both in subjective and
objective evaluations.

Maybe luck is like love. You've
got to go all the way to find

You do to keep it.


If there's no specific content
in my contact, sometimes the
attempted connection ricochets off the
other person, leaving inside an
empty line of thought going nowhere.
A kind of forgetting: "You didn't
remember." As in not remembering
someone on their birthday. Once
you started looking for it, it took
exactly ten minutes to find it-
Kafka's "Investigations of a Dog."

What is lack of wit if it isn't
a moment of indecision, when the
other moves into the zone of
embarassment to counter you?


Sitting alone thinking this to himself:


Thinking that thought of the bridge
Is a bridge- a bridge to sun and an unimaginable
Lightness, quietness and calm. Who was it
We had pretended to be, floating out there
Amid the flotsom and jetsom of yellow beams
By not moving in its peripheral shadows, in its
Warm, wordless, wit, its inviting gestures
Silence blanketing an empty silence in a bed of silent pauses
Over the edge of the building across the street
The yellow comes- the birds grace this with monosyllabic whistles.
What gives permission except silence itself?
It encloses itself inside time's body, it
Nestles within the rhythms of the traffic noises too
And that's all. It is certainly not the profusion of elements
That charms, not the exceptional accomplishments.
It is the fact of grace within the enlarged accompaniment
Of selves. Who else would have hidden it thus.
This territory, which remains mysterious,
Abides and engenders so much else. We tumble,
That's all, down the Shaman's tunnel,
Alongside a myriad of animals and forms.
They continue, as does their interaction. There
Is an exchange, and then something is streaming
Alongside all of it as it falls and stampedes itself.
All manner of things stream along this way through
Time's tunnel. This is how they listen:
They listen by abiding.

Things can stop and start again. Barks
And whistles dont' seem like very much,
But also enter in the equation. Notes
from a piano, probably going by in car radio-