Distribution Automatique

Saturday, September 13

We started the day with Toni laughing her head off at Gary Sullivan's blog parodies, and we're ending it by watching a great, classic Bollywood film that Gary and Nada lent us, *Awara* Thanks, guys!


She feels satisfied.
For a moment
All of this is at her feet-
And much can be learned.
For a moment
The actual day is forcing itself
Through her door.
And the dry noon.
And the eternal excisions.
If it was there
Isn't it true that eventually
I or she would hear this knocking
Which otherwise would be defined
On a Fortune-telling deck or cookie
As a barely hearable gentle noise?
Here, someone is turning.
Here, someone is lying awake.
Here, someone is burning.
It would be useless to express it.

The mystique of quality
Is the mystique of quantity

The buzzy asides
Prophetic absence
O.K.- nurse-shells-oleander
The deer, cholera, arcane

The busy slides
Signal, bee, Gestaltist
Known since the Big War

Who controls the specifics.
They are the weather patrol
And the waltz crew-
Oh, don't sputter...

Les Halles
Les Mots

Bittersweet reflections
Landing crew
from an undated 1980's notebook


A mind remembering-
trying to define specific words
around which the memories
are wrapped. To try to
remember and also undo the
painful sticks- the way the
words stick painfully.
A "sound poem"- to be
thought *to*- not *about*.
"I am sorry to say I kicked
a soccer ball in your head"


"maybe this toilet paper roll
is useless but I don't agree"

by Julia Mayhew (Eagle's Wing)

Open the door and you might find nothing.
This is what makes it so hard.

You're going to be talking to somebody and therefore
listening to somebody.

The present: next thing to do is remember
something in the past in order to present it in
the future-which is now-which is then-
which is now.

It doesn't stop. You don't need to pay it
any mind. It won't stop. I won't mind.

Now I'm moving away from you and at the same time
wondering why you're not moving towards me.

As you're moving toward me to explain
it to me, I move toward you to
explain it to you. Moving
away from each other like
Groucho Marx watching himself jump away from
himself in a mirror in *Duck Soup.*


Having heard only lies all our
lives, we must assume the truth is
unintelligible and start from there. It's
like panning for gold and not knowing
what gold looks like.

To take a note
is to think about
it. To publish it
is to speak it out


There are people
who think that
to "work with"
is to subordinate.
But most people
sense it, even if
they don't know
that this is
"Sophisticated people
can hardly understand
how vague experience is
at bottom, and how truly
that vagueness suppports
whatever clearness is
afterwards attained."

Santayana, The Life of
Reason, 1905-1906


"Self-love seems so
often unrequited."

Anthony Powell
The Acceptance World, 1955


"...to grasp
topicality as the
reverse of the eternal
in history and to
make an impression
of this, the side of
the medallion hidden
from view."

Walter Benjamin, letters

The Voyage

From the outset of this poem, the
poet has been struggling with the creation
of a metaphor. This metaphor, understood
as connecting with the ideas of travel,
movement, relocation, itself cannot
be reduced to one or another of these
terms. "It was as
if the reader were writing the poem
while reading this."

Who were the letters
written about? This was all unclear.
Time was beginning to become saturated.
Elements of the past, present and future were
entering into the work.

Had the poem
actually discussed this already? Were the
current comments directed to something
taking place in the past (the former poem) or the
future (the poem in progress). The movement
metaphor had anticipated this. And this
is how the realization emerges that, here,
voyages are metaphors for the state
of anticipation. Voyages externalize
anticipation and the anxieties which
surround it.


1) to show interest and concern
2) to feign interest (La R.)
3) indulgence and control
4) Poe's *Philosophy of Composition*
5) It is all there waiting for you,
the poet is saying. "Life presents itself to
us, all at once, at all times, in its
6)"I am aware, on the other hand,
that the case is by no means
common, in which an author is at
all in condition to retrace
the steps by which his conclusions
have been attained. In general,
suggestions, having arisen pell-mell,
are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner."

7) The poem must be determined, in
part, by what the poem feels compelled
to present, but in an obscured manner.
Something has happened, but it must be
disguised. A search, a finding,
an unearthing of a path- and
then a presentation of some of the markers
found along this path (not all).
Someone is present, soon familiar
to all as one of the characters.

8) Once, the character had revealed a
total willingnesss to steal, or had
participated in a betrayal. Of
course, a woman had been involved
in this- and, since it was a betrayal,
two women had been involved. Eventually
his spirit was shattered and remolded by
and because of this experience.

9) Bits and pieces which eventually
reveal the outline of a pattern, like
magnetic filings which reveal the movement
of a magnet. Scars are histories.

In the secret room of secret
writing there are no secrets. You
do it for another reason. Absolutely
what is eliminated. This was first.
Avoid the bombs with an s-weave.
Something gets stuck on the edges.

Even with the slightest little bit of that
you'd know what you tasted. If this
isn't one long English lesson, what
is it? You can hear the echoes.
You can hear the lessons. Starting right
back there at the beginning with an
ideologue. As long as you can watch.
It is spinning. As long as you can

This is a test. This is a test of
what you can make of it. What you can
make of remembering, what you
can make of listening, what you can make
of living. If it isn't philosophy, what is
it? What it is, is hard to be serious
about. No time to be serious.

It is more like wrestling than dancing.
To enter into a whirlpool of helplessness
for no other reason than to get some
words on a page. For no other reason than to
read. Words on a page.

A displacement of cravings. Is it
you or is it me? A fearsome symmetry.
As dew dries on a flower, the
ink dries upon the page, the words
dry upon the mind. It's just that
if it's in your/my/our vicinity
we will want to control it.

Can I close the book? To
play the priest you must hide.
The inverse of reasoning is not
going crazy, no sleep, not an
avoidance. Be willing to end, to stay,
to go back. It's quiet on the
sidelines. A gardener would not
perfume her own flowers, nor a
poet her poems. This was heard on
Cocteau's radio.

A circle is drawn in. Are the
books reading me?


Toni's been laughing out loud all morning reading Gary Sullivan's blog parodies (see Sept 11 and Sept 10)

Friday, September 12


Isn't my difficulty with writing narratives,
the same problem I have with
dealing with "boring" details in
everyday life. I realized reading
the Auster book is that he takes
the trouble to construct all the "boring
details" that creates the feeling of an
actual scene- yet the writing has the
"driven" quality of the aphorisms
of E.M. Cioran!

The aphorisms contain all the
same qualities as the Auster books-
doubts, suspicions, exaltations, above
all *impulses*- but Auster organizes
them around specific *scenes*. So
you could write a novel with a
visual storyboard- index cards.

"I have all the defects of
other people and yet everything
they do seems to me inconceivable."
p. 31 E. M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

"Easy to imagine the elements,
bored with their exhausted theme,
disgusted by their invariable and
utterly predictable combinations,
seeking some diversion: life would
be merely a digression, merely an
anecdote" (Cioran, p. 47).


The professor stood by the door
with his right elbow in his
left hand and a thoughtful
expression on his face. "We don't
know what is really out there," he

"We don't know what awaits us
in time or space. This existance is
surely in between something and something

"At times it feels as though we had
been sent here on some serious
mission without having any idea what
it might be. Or that we have been
sent here to find something out
without the means of verifying that
whether what we have discovered
is that something."


Joan Retallack's poems remind
me of the necessity of allowing
"negative" feelings (this label
implies a value judgement) to emerge
in the poem. The words of everyday
life, the thoughts of everyday life,
one no more "representative" of
what the experience of life is than
a random listing of current
magazines. What is
"current" is largely illusory,
a projection based on a number
of largely unconsciously held,
socially determined, assumptions.
Besides this, the "unfolding" of life
from birth, to youth, to middle
age, to old age is perhaps
also somewhat illusory. Although
events appear to us in a consecutive
fashion, we learn early on of the
reality of what the whole of life
includes, which encompasses aging
and dying. Attention to the innumerable,
constantly emerging epiphanies,
demands and frustrations of everyday
life also shields us from
focussing for very long
on an overview. Ambitious
plans, fantasies, memories, disap-
pointments, hungers, frustrations
constantly lead consciousness away
from an "aerial" or overall
view and towards focussing on
the significance of emerging events for
the next upcoming planned sequence
of actions.


The "key" in which you tell a tale
is the equivalent to the "key" in
music. It's a tone of voice
and an attitude combined.


You arrive at truth through
poetry. I arrive at poetry
through truth.
Joseph Jourbet

Indifference to poetry is one
of the most conspicuous
characteristics of the human race.
Robert Lynd

Habits are first cobwebs, then
Spanish Proverb


I am out of that. For now.

All art has to say to me is:
*You are allowed to be
who you are*
You (are allowed to) or
You know what you know.
You are allowed to be who you *were*.
What I did was
go back to the beginning.
Art should start over and over-
Gertrude Stein almost right
No *repeat* (which is
mechanical, futile, empty)
but start, begin, again and
again- tracing the steps
over and over, thinking it forwards
and backwards, over and over-
not "over" and "over"- but again.

I said this. Did I say this?
I said this. To whom? I said
this. You said what? I said
this. I said, saying to someone
saying to myself, I said it.

I said it because I wanted to
say it, I felt it, when I said
it? Said what? Doesn't matter.

It is the saying I wanted. Almost saying
it, I said it. Going back, again, to the
beginning, which is starting over, which is
starting at all. I said it, feeling it, and knowing it.
I wanted to say it. Nothing happened
afterwards. I said it and therefore, no
afterwards, or, the afterwards was a different
kind of time. I said it in that tone,
it happened and it ended. But going back,
remembering, starting from the beginning, with
the utterance itself, not saying it, I said
it. Therefore no beginning= no end, beginning
again= feeling it. Not remembering
*it*, but the wanting to do it, the
needing to do it, is the saying, was the
saying. A simple way to begin again,
to keep starting, to keep starting again
and again, which permits each stopping
and all the hesitations, pauses,
remembrances. I said it and it happened.
I felt it and I said it.

4/26/82 Title: Scanning

I begin with a word which reflects
a thought. The word I begin with occurs
with the thought. I start where I start.
I start with a word, a word for a

Scanning the whole language-
an instructional lmanual for scanning.

I thought of it first as computer
instructions- instructions for
programming the computer to scan the
language by reading it aloud (allowed).


Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church points to Exit Wound a photo blog.


Hadn't taken a walk around Wood s Lot lately. What have I been missing? Jackson Mac Low, Ben Shahn, Lyn Hejinian, Igor Savchenko, and more, that's what! (Takes an extra moment to download, but it's well worth it)

How 'bout a swig of Whiskey River?

"It is believed by most
that time passes;
in actual fact,
it stays where it is.
This idea of passing may be called time,
but it is an incorrect idea,
for since one sees it only as passing,
one cannot understand that it stays just where it is."
- Dogen Zenji


This just in from Pantaloons: Tykes on Poetry... Jack Kimball: new books by Li Bloom (!!!) Brenda Iijima and others.

Thursday, September 11


Cuteness- words w/no emotions
performance is feeling-
music is feeling-
imp. of ideas to me
writing incidental to doing
opening chords-
an unbrella
then the words pour
quickly and gradually
the words I like
can remind me of flesh
but usually are not
The schedule is slow in arriving
after sporadic exhaustion
still I was not so personal
opening my arms
one line at a time
they don't come near by
me, the way, don't give it
another thought.
Sometimes you
I didn't mind understanding it gradually
I suppose we will never run out of ink
in jail sometimes
Never a dull moment
beside the accordian filled with flowers
you can remark an image of
what reminded you of hatred also
though tired even then you were
smoothing your plaited feellngs.
Insincere cheefulness scared me away
they were so responsive
*and* sometimes too discordant.

Again, I am aware of your
mild presence. This too
personal solitude is publicly revealed
reflection of my expressions.
And tastes like ice.
The word turns on the axis
of my ambivalance.
Until a list
faces me with alternatives.
I can move, not arbitrarily expecting the comprehensibles
to be translated into a diagram of signs.
I can follow your hand signals
if you are sometimes able to be patient.
What comes next is when I can want it to be sensible and sensitive
to your images, in the
decaying translation of
your inner language. Now outer.
I didn't always
expect the periphery to intrude.
You can be funny. A massive
ethic would be discouraging.
What is needed here is an endless sequence of ordinarily tiresome
actions made resplendent.
A chain of newly discovered hieroglyphs
in endless, calm, yet
exciting progression. Dots
of vision. I can't again
ask if birds grace my solitude
because frames for these paintings
are gilded and we agreed
on an attempt at real


Garrett's band
Sat 1-4 176 Greene Street
Sat Apr 23 9pm 2 Bond
Sun May 8 830 Kitchen 484 Broome


Later, after writing the
obove, I ran into Tony
Towle at the Spring St Bar.
We talked about B, Gerard.
Tony said he was
published out of the first
group of young poets to
know Frank O'Hara, who
introduced him to his wife
(knowing Frank "cut two
ways") and his present job-
a place that sells original lithos
by Johns (who did the last
cover on his book)
Rauschenberg, Motherwell
(who did the cover on the
one before) "You had
to act like you'd already
done your best work." He
was interested in what I
said about Acconci. Saved
me looking for words twice and
we laughed- "encounter"
for "affair"- heavy
for my reaction to his
having a teenage son.
Once almost roomed w/
Frank Lima (O'Hara's old
apartment)- they became
friends because they didn't.
"Poetry should lie rather than
than be boring." Feels
you shouldn't bother if
you're not impelled to.
I suggested he is moving
towards longer works and he
said that's true. Very
sensitive person. And
communicates. Doesn't
like long boring readings.
About fame as a poet-
"Nobody gives a fuck."
If you read longer
than others , it's your
friends you are fucking
over, not the establishment.
There isn't any establishment.
"The truth is boring" he
said before I left.
Finds some of Vito's
pieces "simple minded."
"I get it," he
It's incredible-
the poem I wrote
before running into him
I feel I could have
read it to him and he would
like it. "Tuned in."


Rent 112.50
Perelson 50
tip 15
RC 30
typewriter 225.00
MC 50


1) Mo's
2) Call cubiculo
3) Mom- don't eat


Actually, the truth is not so hard to find. But first you have to be willing to give up the many pleasures in not having to know it. That's the hard part.

"One would expect people to remember the past and to imagine the
future. But in fact, when discoursing or writng about history, they
imagine it in terms of their own experience, and when trying to
gauge the future they cite supposed analogies from the past: till, by
a double process of repetition, they imagine the past and remember
the future."

Sir Lewis Namier, *Conflicts* 1942

Jim Berhle's L=A=N=G poet cartoons

Wednesday, September 10

Last night, I attended the event detailed below. Both Alans performed unforgettably well. Alan Davies read from Book 3 of a 5 part series, this one called BAD DAD. There are 26 copies of this chapbook with sandpaper covers (meant to represent the sands of Iraq, according to the author.) The poem is a personal and emotionally searing indictment of war, and addresses in particular the war in Iraq. The whole poem hit me hard and Alan read it movingly:

"Death is a kind of foreclosure.
An unkind kind
Made more unkind
When its hand is the hand of a man.
They're white men, really,
the ones we might have stopped
or influenced.
They've had a problem, in the past,
with alcohol consumption,
and they're not entirely over it,
not over it at all.
It turns to rage
and four thousand die,
eight thousand, ten thousand,
what does it matter really
as long as the rage is spent....

War is male rape.
Over and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over and over..."

(Other publications
PO Box 687 NYC 10009)

After Alan Davies read, Alan Sondheim
played some great music on synthesizer
with UK trumpet player Leonie Wilson
-a tight and inventive combo. I hope they will keep working
together and do a CD so you can also hear them
play together sometime.

Here's more info on the reading last night
and further info on the series; Brenda Hillman and
Alan Sondheim are planning more readings including

INFO on Upcoming Readings and *last night's* readers and performers
at the Flying Saucer



TUESDAY, September 9, 7:00, At the FLYING SAUCER CAFE in BROOKLYN -

(See below for details)

ALAN DAVIES is the author of several books including CANDOR, RAVE and
SIGNAGE. At present, he lives in New York. His poetry neither expels nor
avoids any of reality. A dynamic of inner ideal and inner mind links up with
all substance, all happening, all being. He'll be reading and talking about
his latest output, a group of war poems.

LEONIE WILSON recently moved to Brooklyn from Edinburgh in Scotland. Plays
trumpet, has worked with numerous jazz/big bands.

ALAN SONDHEIM works in sound, text, video, image, internet, etc. He thinks
his early records with ESP-DISK were a disaster. He promises to do better
this time.


The Flying Saucer Cafe series pares up new media artists with poets who
instead of giving a reading present a talk relating to their poetry and


We will be having readings the first Tuesday of each month (September an
exception). Please come and support us!

Contact Brenda Iijima or Alan Sondheim for further information.
Brenda Iijima
Alan Sondheim (sondheim@panix.com)

The Flying Saucer is located at 494 Atlantic Ave. between Nevins and 3rd
Avenues, in Brooklyn. You can subways to the Pacific or Atlantic stops,
including the 2, 3, 4, 5, W, N, R, Q, and anything else that runs there.

Telephone at the Flying Saucer Cafe is 718-522-1383.


Jim Berhle's latest charming cartoons about his superhero blogger friends

And *you*
what do *you* know


what do you even know
about you?

the frame of the face
without really

what do you even think

what matters?

the silence says
as much as
even could be said

what even
should be

how little is

how little even
is permitted?

yet again
how do you challenge
a killer?
when life itself
is a killer

all going backward
into no purpose
which is how
the original words
were said

the breath
grew longer
and deeper


I know about
at least

copying from
whatever is
at hand is
at least
as generous
(a way of
brings with it
its own silence)

which means
I can
talk to you
in your

language. Not
for you
not to you
not of you
no by

Caring loving words
are one thing
not all are

I know I'm
that much I

and I know one
thing that's

the places that
you put things
are important

to be clear: you
lose them

an answer:
that chapter's

A form of wandering includes
losing one's bearings but
may bring me closer to
surprise. Of course, all
too often it feels like
"there's no way to get
there from here." By
definition it is a form
of remembering, bringing
me close to something or
someone unexpected. Like
coming across the "feathers
in the files" in my
dream. "So that's where the
feathers in the files comes from." I was
surprised, but somehow I
had expected it.

Ready to face something
means ready to do something.

TO is virtual poetry. All
the materials for poetry have
been presented wtihin a supporting
atmosphere- an emotional tonality
is supplied. Still
this all consists of music
only. What is not supplied is
a musician or the
occurance of a playing, a
concert. This is all left to
the reader. So, there are
blanks- which can only be
filled in by the readerly
imagination. Although it acts
like one- this is not only a
puzzle, though there are
puzzling aspects and there are
possible solutions. In the end,
there are only readerly
solutions, each one, though,
slightly different from the
last. this is an invitation
to create the dance, in
order to hear the music.
The actors and characters are only too
willing to come on stage, but
only the reader can call them
to order. Ever after being called in, they
are certainly a surly
lot. There are sullen
loners in there who are
not all that interested
in communication- but
these too probably will
make themselves available
at a certain point if the reader
is persistent.

Again and again the reader
seems to be at a precipice, an
ending point- where only
incoherencies seem
capable of living or existing. If this
is so, then let these
be too, in order for
them to have the
thin atmosphere of
such stratospheric latitudes so
to be seen or felt
to play their part.

Anything can supply a
narrative- a story can be
built around anything. Just
as in life, one has to
go through the entire cycle
of feelings and perceptions
once a specific story-
(or image-complex) is
opened. At any entrance, of
course, the reader can go in
any direction. This is established
mostly by what appears
inviting- though this isn't to
say that this is all
insubstantial. Evanescent,
at times, but not insubstantial.
"Time spent carefully creating the atmosphere in which a work of art must move is never wasted. As I see it, one must never be in a hurry to write things down. One must allow the complex play of ideas free rein: how it works is a mystery and we too often interfere with it by being impatient- which comes from being too materialistic, even cowardly, although we don't like to admit it."

Debussy, in a letter to Raoul Bardac, Saturday, 31 August, 1901 (*Debussy Letters*, 1987)

Thought is approximate.

"In this dream you say goodbye to everyone."

There are old records we play in our
heads that we've long ago dismissed as
incredible. Yet sometimes (less and less
often) we listen to them not really
believing anything but the words themselves.
Even the scratches on that old record are
part of what we still listen to although
the story itself has long ago ceased to
have any plausability.


You won't value the sanity
within until you've faced the
insanity outside. You won't
find the sanity outside until
you've faced the insanity within.


More than anything else, reading
makes it possible to freely
imagine what it
might feel like to be other than
who you are at this moment.
This feeling, in turn, leads to
another- that everything about your
own life you have selected-
summarized in Toni's maxim "You
create your own reality."

All present experience is overlaid
with memories. Reading is also
the best way (other than psychoanalyzing)
to become aware of this.


Who couldn't do with some "Irises in Sun" right now? See Topher Tune's Times...Christy Church


Toni, Nada, Gary and me having lunch on the boardwalk at Brighton Beach seen through the eyes of Katie Degentesh seen through the eyes of our Daumier Gary Sullivan

Tuesday, September 9

The cycle of provoking, feeling hurt, and counterprovoking. "Dialectics." Stop it.
Jordan - 9:39 AM

Thanks, Jordan

If only we could listen.


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-

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.

Sunday, September 7

A poem concerning time from Yoo Doo Right...Mike County

It's compelling. Why I am drawn
to a "cold, rejecting woman" situation-
is it the dark lady? The one who
must be bad or good, who I must
hate or love to an extreme. I keep
thinking of X looking through the window at
me. She was angry with me- not then, but
for awhile and then she was angry with her mother.

Now work: it's hard to do the 853's
because our schedules do not allow
us enough time with the children-
to get the information.

Probably a mother transference
to the page and to the telephone

Sometimes I go a little further
than I need to with the idea
and this is a plus for writing
I know I really want them to
"call collect" sometimes-


2 things today-0
1) The Liz W class-
2) Gloria B- whose friends are
Puerto Rican- and goes to discos to dance
(has done Ballet- wants to do

a play- a dream- a fantasy-
Le Masochiste Extatique-
the play-


A weekend of "lessons." the murder,
the zen-meditation, Jeannette- "you
would never leave. I think it was the
dog that got to you. Friends are
able to part." Mike and Cheska- Hoboken.
The cardboard sculptures.

What is happening when I feel
"desperately alone?"

The powers of this notebook now. I
write these kinds of thoughts

The envelope on the top of the speaker.
Plan, Practice Solitude, Don't Cling,
Choose, Go By What I Perceive

Not deciding the other person is all
good or bad when I cling.

The center of the envelope is Practice Solitude

Tne art of solitude- How to stop being a
people junkie- People who need people
are the luckiest people in the world-