Can it be like any other Monday
When the first words given are silent
And every other word covers its prayers and plans
With syllables of intractable silence?
No design will unravel the core of memories
That run like late night movies between each thought
Dissolving like dreams in the morning.
Monday promises nothing: but, oh, the
afternoon follows you around every
minute, whispers in your ear all its
ineffable yearnings. No going back,
yet so nice to linger gently in
childhood's indecision, the pain a
reminder and a prod, the disappearing
light seems to hold fast.
Caught between yesterday, memory,
and today, desire,
revery is our only protection. It
yields nothing but asks no admission.
Monday is its own movie, each syllable
absorbs stillness, each moment
Out of the revery, Monday pleases
your children, arms encircling,
voices touching; now the hour regains
its pace and revery has called back its
answers- no specific hour, no day,
no minute- nameless, faceless warmth
of self enclosed in the ocean
Again you wake and swim thinking
nothing, nothing...this time
a face smiles back and it is your
own and another face, changing,
hiding, looking anxious, afraid,
indifferent, concerned, amazed.
Words, prayers of silence
thoughts dissolve between thoughts.
the pain a prod
Concentration of childish indecision
Stay inside the dark, don't go towards the
dark, I mean the light is what was
swallowed up in words. Don't say nothing
is happening: all the dark order of nothing
leading towards the light can never fully
explain this disappearance of desire without
any interruption. At least we speak in
many languages, the feeling of frightening
admixtures doesn't display any amplitude.
I don't exactly know the loudness of the world
and it doesn't have a name.
exactly what is criminal, nobody but XZ
can tell me exactly how loud my voice is
and he doesn't exactly exist.
Valery, don't tell me now if I am
now confused. I only wanted to go on.
But there I go pleading with you again.
In a way, that laughter was the truth. "That
The line that began with "that means..."
She said it was "only a conception,
a line made up of words."
I won't any longer have to say
what I mean. A word dissolves into
muscular shadows, the feeling of things
creeping all over you. It never was
exactly over and it never was exactly
You know exactly how to believe me, X7.
I know you know exactly what I mean.
And you also know it is composed
so much of tension and excitement. You
noticed that. You only wanted a hero,
someone to remember your dream by.
Yes, XZ it is possible to stay here
but now I want to leave, to relax.
The tension is unbearable. I feel
like I am suffocating. Gets harder
and harder. That's how I expand the
How much of me can I permit you to
have, XZ. How tired will I have to
get. No stars to dissolve into
the geraniums. He says the world
is dry. No one really believes me.
Translating words from words.
Very cautious- these are psychological things.
Why my voice might be a little louder-
commit yourself to what you are saying.
SO SLOW- SO SLOW BECAUSE
I had to stop writing because I got
so wrapped up in the play.
How much E's criticism is worth
it? Maybe (like my mother) I equate the
criticism with genuine concern. Taking a critical
attitude. She hates my slowness. So that
the last time I wrote-I wrote about my
my own slowness. But that slowness
came out of a desire to think before
acting. I have a hunch E knows a lot.
But I really hate her critical, grumpy
attitudes. I give so freely, Others
bargain and barter. They conserve,
they hold back. She equates
everything to the way I make love.
I feel sad. I wonder also if it
can work. This is the first time
with E I've totally doubted.
And now I totally doubt what?
Her worth? No. My worth to
her. *What* she discovers or admits
is there. A- "What does C
need you for?" She still talks to me.
She isn't all that interested in talking to
Ideas noted while assembling book for Slit
Writing makes me want to talk with someone
Theme: writing and the need for someone
Theme: my psychoanalysis- my assessment of
idea- going in and out of "making up things"
- thinking before you write
write about the book itself- the assembled book
[critical thoughts- what for?
do they try to neutralize anxiety?
I am trying to bracket them
[putting things down or back an impulse