Distribution Automatique

Monday, September 8


It wasn't only my notebook that was
smaller it was your voice that got
inside my head. You explained it in
many breaths. And no matter how complicated,
how many languages were being spoken
here at once I would try to make
myself understood by adding
something remembered from yours. Could
be the sum total of your present thoughts
added to this. Something about intelligence
being wide. Some people are uptight about
this. I wonder why. I still have the feeling
of not having learned anything. Maybe
my pauses are too long or my terminology's
hesitant...maybe I should add three
dots. I know I was getting to something.
Dimly remember something being said very
lightly in the laundry room or laughs
about other forgotten objects R doesn't
want to throw away. The you- problem.
There's also plenty of room for the
hieroglyphs and intricate speculations.
Inevitably I will share in all your
catastrophes: your births, your intense
disappointments- there would be many
but how will they be timed in relation to
my silences, my needs, my
excited anticipation of your
perfectly timed movement
towards me, or away from me- two
sets of hands, two mouths just about to
speak excitedly of the same thing at the
same time, and/or then wanting to

Maybe I was one of the people you did
not think of tonight. The tones didn't fit.
I didn't want to go out of the house. And that
is the whole story for tonight. There will
always be a long pause. Always that moment
when you go- uh, now what with an anxious,
sinking feeling. The next breath will have
to be deeper, the next moment contain more.
If it's difficult, and sometimes it is
difficult, that single, best, intensest
moment will not be enough to forestall
the next impossible period of waiting.

I know how pleased you are that I
wanted to work so hard at finding a
way to let it be known I mentioned
your name, that I thought of you in
particular. I am thinking about whether
this will be placed before, during or
after the interview, I mean, before
during after the conversation, sort of as
an an addendum, a parting
comment- or maybe as as something
I casually mention before we
get down to real talk. Somehow I
finally find a way to mention dull
orange brown but I'm not sure she'll
remember that. I also try to find a
way into the labyrinth to find even
more dangerous ways of getting lost.
I starve, I feel [like a blank tarantula,]
the ensemble image was really mine,
they are *my* prime numbers, your
words are powerful because they don't exist
yet [Parmigianino I am thinking of now
but that reference is too specific-]

What do I make of my hesitations? How
long to make the jumps? You seem to
react to them as if they were decisions.
No, you react so strongly it is a change of
rhythm for me.

You hated the song so I felt for an
object, a shoe. A list of things to do.
A film, a diary, photographs. A
diagram to cover the bare walls.

Empty down there. Not so funny.
I don't remember them that well. Full of
shit about something specific. Vadim's
wives, the soldier reciting in *Weekend*,
the doctor, now the butcher cracking an
egg in her ass. Somewhere at the
deepest part of that dream I would be
attracted to his wife, the wives of Windsor.
Must be funny. Deneuve, she's like Daneuve,
in a way, not sarcastic like her in a Bunuel film,
and not really able to vanish
as gradually as she thinks. Dressed like a
New Yorker she makes mannikins, could
be fifty New Yorkers.

50 New Yorkers on vacation.
Sex is unclear. Not forthcoming.
Not coming. You get it around but
nothing's clear. Vexed New Yorkers. Color-
go to the store and choose.

All in front of the window: something
left out.

Acting-12 moments of ambiguity,
one after the other, quickly, not
so important to understand. I
pass the exam and wait for the grade.
It gets mixed up. It's disorganized,
disorganizing. You know that one
happened. That time we had together.
What's better than that? Oh, which
one was happening. Sorry
about that: I remember nothing,
I remember nothing.

He passed the exam. Disorganized.
A song, arbitrary, the merchant,
Ireland. Carcasses, caucasians,
skeleton, choice.

Image hides meaning

and there was nothing left
may hope to be both laughter
your mind unknown in this room

She immediately stripped and wanted
to make love...broken bottles...I
had no choice. I'm
still undressing. *Sleeping in words


sentences, orgasms. Transmission of
messages, permutations of conceived
sentences, permuations of actuality.

Choice, not chance, reminded. you to
bring whatever it was along or lose it.
No matter
how absent minded you get, even falling
asleep you will still see the incommensurate
stars fading into a light blue
morning. Even that is distinguishable
but partly indistinguishable from
what I was trying to say, a
feeling of hands on the back
of my neck. Someone said he
walks around like he wishes he had
eyes in the back of his head. Close
up the stars are violent. Far away
they are cold. Time to go to the
concert. Clowns. Clarinets. It gets
hot and stillo and stuffy there. I'm
high on mushrooms, not hungry. Where
to move?

[It gets funnelled down] to a
series of stills, one always of rain,
the other of what really happened
shile we were listening to the
music last night. Set sail, they
are ready now (still noticing).

It's the nineteen-seventies and
there's no image for that. An
unintentional still- the sunrise,
bets, tracks, beach, food.

She stretches, limps a few
steps, stretches again, yawns,
thinks about a film and slowly runs
it backwards in her head. She opens
the refrigerator and looks for something
to eat.

The continuing rhythm changes
and is interchangeable with the meaning of
any word I choose to represent my
emotion at just that moment.

The suspense is boring,
the even means nothing. Only the
accidents are interesting (flat,
unintensional). The same
elusive decisions- a path of sparrows
spinning idly, wildly.