| edged out 3 part 3 - 1982 august-september | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
15th August 1982 Fifty ways t'love a leaver
"I got drunk and washed all the windows." "He likes the butate-os, so ..." The word made flesh she said is DNA. At the table behind an unescapable conversation. [fisherman's café on the wharf] "Thank you Jesus for this lovely breakfast and the nice time we are having together." Man and father-in-law, two children. The little girl sides with the gulls, "They're not stupid, it isn't nice to the gull to say that." She comes back to it. "Even that little baby gull? It's cute." "It's very cute but it's stupid. Compared to other birds, like the hawk." He rides her about the maple syrup, "You should know better, you don't put syrup on eggs, after you eat your egg then you can put syrup on the rest of your pancake." "I wasn't going to -." She is hurt, it has been piling on her. "Don't cry, look at your brother, he's a good boy, he's not crying." Rage. Will I? I will - turn right around looking into his face saying "What's the matter with you?" Personally, so personally it's as if no one has heard it, except that when I have turned my back again, he reasserts himself humming, then singing. "Whatsoever you do, do it with all of you." Repeats it. Rallies them, ie forces them, with catechism, "Hey kids, who made the ocean?" "Je-sus did!" Chorus. "Are you sure?" "Yes!" Chorus. "But he didn't make the mountains did he?" "Yes-he-did." -
The eye has to burn before they can be seen. Raven's announcement passing forward over its white tongue. Something never seen. A loose net a sidelong eye an emotion crossing Crossing evenly a tuft of catfish schnurrbart slightly as much as a A tugboat whale with a mast cuts through behind a post and a black thing in the same space with a post plugged in concrete Little one suspended from a line in a wall Above it mist lifts off an edge Levitates Below an arrow grounds it but under the line of the ground (suggested) another cloud. It's again space, white lines of feeling etched. A shadow. A smoke of lit leafs growing blazing up from the air of a shack. A smoke of lit leafs are the shock of (the) hair of the shack In some way two shadows fallen on the path cut steps there. - [Robert's letter]
Working. "They are draft poems." The prenate thoughtful touching That's me lying in my bed wounded.
(Womb you like this.) Garbled sounds heard as crosstalk, result of interference, currents from another channel.
20 [sketch of first edge of the new moon] T home last night. Out of the fever / having written. Those days at the green table writing, hot day is unlived except maybe as the drive. Evening's great shining. I have just seen that I've put flowers on the west windowsill, that are like puja, orange pink yellow purple red offered to orange pink yellow purple red, as the two strips of color pinned next to the frame (the tack is dead moon). I move chair table and writing here when the light comes around. Oh color what do you want from me and how will I do it. The stinking end of the period. I'll write down calmly, how sharply I look at figures walking across the top of the alley. Bach. Last night on the other side of the street the walker with a suitcase, traveler from Hastings. Then I recognize the suitcase and T waves. I am fascinated/laughing staring at Rhoda by her table still unaware that Trudy is coming up the stairs. I see her start up. T can't stop peering at writing. "Tell me what you want to know and I'll tell you it." She's twitching to know what's up. "Cher Roberr?" Not with you, grinning and thinking, what don't I know about what's wanted in the whole. That R had a letter from Barry and was, by it, inspired to want to write an essay on language describing how Stein keeps on careful because much less insulated till finally it comes out. Her reserve tanks.
Morning's dream Father gave me a case with a supply of --- and safes, Ramses, one lot when I opened it out, was very short like a li'l thimble, the rest were the regular long wetted ones. Realizing the gentle generous of how he speaks out between the lines. Is it less beautiful to hear oneself and say it out in simple lines as I want to. I wrote passionately about the huge free impartial (disinterested) body of English. And kept writing, all the more, but with much less certainty, because I was in the unknown, and nothing I said was true: it was part of a trace of a passage, at best. Otherwise it was an instrument of dominance politics, sexual self-advertisement, distraction and cover, maneuver. Dictionary. Its structure of inclusion. The movement from one meaning to another is an exquisite shift I feel spatially. I liked the image of working from inside rock to open perspectives. That is exactly how it feels. A prenate thoughtful touching of directions thinning out the solidity of distances in just some spots. And about stretching the flute's tone so that afterwards it falls home - it's something I've done blindly, miserably overreach, starve for success, and take the incidental arrivals as natural. The sense of opening perspectives by attenuating solidity, wondering whether the directions opened are arms toward you / her / them. And a multiple mind being excavated. That with wondering less fancily whether you are a self I'm just coming to see 'outside,' and whether Jung when he says guardian of the threshold might mean a meeting with a physical person. Moving carefully to get to be able to tell you what needs telling to you. Floods the womb with catecholamines. It's jolted into fear. Back translation from the protein thence to DNA transcription. Superimposition to determine the patterns. --- --- as part of his breakdown series, conjugation, and resonance. Implicit - that the life is first, first find the way into a life with honest relations - then write so that what's written is what it is, description precise, fantasy precise as fantasy - if working with glamours, of form also, know them, have traced them - genres are impossible, structuring concerns having to do with the history of the genre, are death; reference is death - dislike for some voices, understand the politics of voice preference - looking before saying, language units, phrases, have already got a world implicit - taking care to see what the plausibility comes from - surge - hunger to describe what happens - riding rhythm - the way metaphor can relieve without risk - physical light of deep (fertility/religion) images -
There has always got to be more precision and accuracy than one knows reason for, because another range of consciousness can get understanding from what I can't now see, the whole is worthless otherwise - familiarity even in one work makes affection - there's no possibility of getting it all but if the few traces are accurate the rest will be accurately implied - the whole of what's implied by a phrase feel and what's done with it - watch out for memory believing and approving what it has heard before. Taste/technology. Destroying the possibility of prestige.
What's important and transmitted is the quality of consciousness. Any fragment can transmit it. Having had as terminals Lessing / Richardson / Yeats / Hegel / Snow / Castaneda / Buddhism, Krishnamurti, Gurgieff Refusing What is this Rules to make it a best discipline - no revision Charm, value, ethic, tactic, & gender, in writing [This becomes the title of the essay made from this sequence.] Reading, scanning through to the rules someone's writing by, I think it's not done in language, I think it's done from a hovering behind, it is like 'noting' (Etymology - "What is it behind / or in this word that's making me like it.") Feeling the rules I write by, those I refer to now, and those I remember struggling in, as undiscussed, a space of charges, a suspension, the familiar unspoken: suspension. Could I precipitate them into lines. The rules are the hardest I can bear. That's done without any sense of tactic. They're made as ethical/technical absolutes. Other writers are considered by them. Others' work and formulation is used as a terminal. The other terminal is the strength of my self-formation so far. I work on something with a pull from the terminals.
Learning to write alone or toward the quickest reader.
"Writing within the hologram already formed" Sense of earnest looking to understand somewhere in the elements. When the confident tightrope dancers just work on off the end of accomplished range. The discipline in English sentences, making everything connect to something else. It can be there because it's lovely, attractive, brings the feeling of charm, but it must seem to be there as information about how something is done. At any time to be willing to let go. An embodiment of values and responsiveness "Built by the extremely delicate decisions of conscience." Woke with it. Judging the political, erotic, experience and integrity - how far they've gone in the life - how they get money, how they mate, how they speak to anyone, how they write a note. Sunday. Koji's with T. Long waterfront road to the Bayshore corner. Benjamin's. Patricia's lost look. Stanley Park. The plumed light. Why's she cutting off - is that firmfaced from yesterday, in the white car, a new one for - Yelling at T this morning for denying why I don't like Joe's. Going along bumping. (Throwing plums.) Rewriting a letter, thinking not to send it. "If you could write what you know about that, there'd never have been anything like it." 22 Woke. Mosquito. Scratching anus. Thinking inter media what instruction. To scoop all the sides of the dish clean at night and in the morning. Is the itch a message. The way writing's been no longer the whole processing of something. It's been an interrupted trace put down without thought of itself so that what's left to be totaled is Went to "lying direly wounded and lying there you discover the best position for your body to recover, the most intimate contours," that being in some way the same. What's lost is the sense of the meaning of "There should be a laying on of hands for everyone, once a day." The quality of the little light hands. The copper building from the side, turned into an opalled flat shape - folded flat - pop carton. The thought was, of the understanding of the itch, as a form, of physical as training, for what's then done, as system. Common doctrine. But what - In these days being light in light few clothes, white pink and red. The image from jumping off the bicycle beside plate glass. Morning narrow waist. Cloud of hair again. Alone, compact. Next to T, wide spread and walking badly. Don't like to look. "You wanted to be perfect." On bicycle riding up behind a man on roller skates. He was flying down the center of the road swaying his lunch bag, throwing one leg after the other, sideways, swaying his body between them. I rode up near to look in his face. He said sorry. I could see a nectarine in his plastic bag. I was riding in the black dress. He hadn't done up the boot laces. Then I wheeled around to pick blackberries on the tracks. The sleep from 8 to 11 was fanciful. Judy was bushcook and had just heard her friend Jason had been killed. Distraught. J called from setting up the ladder. "I was in a time warp when you called." hosts of wild pink zephyranthes that had come up in the night after the first fall of rain 26 [Jam's piece]
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Then the sounds in bed, she dazed dressing in the closet. Bowed over panting with crying. I said to stay still and take longer breaths. Sit in front of her holding her knees and breathing so that afterwards I feel a swarming. I watch without certainty, having to doubt whether for instance it is giving out or taking in. She is sitting collapsed holding her hands over her sex. Little child. The pain at the tip and in the chest. "I see it cut off." A piece of meat like a slice of chicken heart being flung at an obelisk. It's in a (cellar) room with rounded ceiling, Tibet. A light, candle near the floor on the left. Stones on the floor. Man with an earring. Man/statue (sandstone). Stones with the tops flattened as if to hold something. I'm suspending reincarnation vision, the story of the woman with knives, castration fantasy. Am I the anchor in this world and she on the end of the cord. Her visionary gift, she can go find things. Let them see it. The child born with open eyes. Rossini. [sketch of musical line, probably from Petite Messe Solonelle] In music to look for structural codes. Uncertain, without belief, tired, not seeing well: ie not loving. Distanced. Knowing I couldn't see well and was giving her only partly right guidance. There is also a feeling that whatever I do will not be right/wrong, will simply further the world of that act. The dream from last night with tree planters, some French, getting in a car going to the terminal on the east side of the town, outskirts, the fare (Nanaimo - maybe Spirit River) is less than to go by Vancouver. In a room gathering clothes - this is the part I'm holding - it's like an old motel room (is this his) - what are the clothes - was there being in a tent - gathering up clothes (going out and)(coming back), seeing clothes in plain sight, left behind, forgotten, socks (there, and then). I don't know enough to go to the head of the glacier but I know enough to be able to do what I want with writing in a film. Her coming was unreal - there's inflation here - today, the quiet excitement, arrivals of completions, patience (that it would go on being there) of the Saturday and Sunday of Luke's conception. I have to bear the not knowing you - "I had to realize I didn't know anything about where you were in it" - the spots of the red berries of the rowan in the light that had no other color. When she came - it was not the one to speak to, but - the one with the same identity - the timing is right but it will have to be done across the strangeness - the inflation nervousness is of hearing being-right. Last night hand on the thin chest between the beginnings of the breasts. The small grieved dazed one. Smal grievd dazd one smal head weighted with glass. Swollen. Alien. In the two days yelling the second day's weakness. "It's beginning to close." The marvel of what can be said. The marvel of how much is not understood. The great understanding. The seen oblivion. Desperation. The feeling (my) way through. Listening. Battling. Giving way. Taking a dicey firm stand. Seeing large noble intelligence - mystified argument - the fight - last ditch - threatening to die - I am racked not knowing whether I'll ever have that again, not wanting to lose you, it's alright now, I can bear it if I have my work but I don't like to look ahead - how can you bear it.
Seeing noble intelligence - mystified argument - working her as if I know - pity for the lying hope - the largest admiration - a vacuity of strangeness - the certain arrivals together - suddenly diving under her argument to see where it's wrong in its base - what we made together is what we've made. The basement corridors. Dreams. Egypt in the fields west of the highway, Bohn's field and granaries. Room with a bedrock green stone. The dead end lost ditch. Suddenly diving under her argument - coming near to the present and leaving it. Near to the present - marveling what she's able to disregard - I give her the blows - if you don't guess I assume you're not interested - three people who don't believe me - the beautiful woman doesn't love her - she's too much like that - you couldn't take it. "You had his child, you're the kind of woman who has boys" - "Do you mean a weakness in the genes?" She in the pleated skirt bobby socks, hair so long it's down her back to her waist. My hair's long too. We kiss. Meeting Luke with Roy and Sara. They're scrappy. She looks thin. He has red under his eyes. Going off with Luke to the museum, a long shed like wharf customs, he trying on shoes, to replace his tight ones. The exhibits, magazines and then walls, of children's radiant paintings, some by adults that doesn't have the (scale maybe) intensity. An upper landing wood floor under a window with white curtains. A white light I know. The woman curator says "Where's Luke," she's going to start closing up. I can't find him. the luggage left in the middle of the road, I get the bicycle across, then when the light changes beg the traffic to let me get the rest, 3 (6) foam mattresses. Said 6 wrote, I saw after, 3. The dream should be described as it was before - but it isn't - the mail and Roy's envelope, Luke's letter. That I've been a long time collecting messages for. Great symbol let it give words. The body of English She is seeing her present memory for the last time.
The shouting is small and at a distance
A symbolic act done in an altered mind to project power through a symbol
Io! ay-voh'-hay that the male mind exists and is good and right and that it is not hers retire from animus options to ride the waves of fusion and separation We have had beauty given us as a focus for drives that have little to do with it. Competition seems to be the language we use for the process of separation against the desire to merge. When these forces turn lateral the process plays out among sisters. Struggle for who takes care 27 Woke with bars of knowledge arriving.
Already looking to see how it could be beyond the bridging work, with those - the sentence - subordinate clauses I don't want The guardians of the threshold; beyond is work The space book! Speaking to you - these answers are coming to me for questions that aren't yours With him in the water remembering, Back Regret and guilt "Multipl-y crying" That there is experience of all the Looking at the whole
If I can take aside everything enthralled in that way Exhausted The structure of (say) twenty-five years noting, coming to a recognition Then what is hers - what has she been noting - she hasn't in the same way - I want to be a (my) father = I am (have been) my father - how could that be in the prenate - don't think it is, I think her prenate is accomplished - the shredding she does - "I'm not she" - if father = androgen - having to bluff. Could I solve it by taking it to an in-figure. What is she in me - the one who refuses to be she - the one with immediate grasp and finer detail - the coming of androgen (binol) - easily androgenized - estrogen = matriarchy - sensitive to a - chemical theatre - "identified with estrogen" - replay the resistance to estrogen - pink tinct. I think there was no crude catastrophe, I think, in your fine sensitivity, you were fixed in the battle of androgen. What's the difference between your Percy intelligence unhappy - your goddess intelligence happy - your child berserk - is there an estrogen and an androgen intelligence - fright of estrogen in yourself but need for it in other. Social rank orders have been altered by injecting subordinate members with male hormones, likewise injecting a dominant with female hormones can decrease natural aggression and cause dethronement. What's the connection of it with magnetic field. What was my dream - a corridor of dinosaurs - looking in the slatted doors not afraid but of the last one - on the right a monster - really a big blond man - who looks like he'll get out - or do I let him out - something about his child - he gives us, I'm sitting at the door of the truck cab, a box of food. Remembered it after. Blond giant's hair underwater seen with Joe. A man's appearance - defines what can or can't be done to her. The rigidity of wearing a man. Congestion.
Meditation 1. breath 2. follow breath into solar 3. watch thoughts like flights of birds 4. go upstream from them, who is thinking. A [for] eyework - apricots, string beans, broccoli, carrots, squash, cod liver with E, B, and C. E 100-200u for each 25,000u of A plus 2500 of D Light-fire high frequency energy Sense of what this would be as the end of a preoccupation, the end of a body of preoccupation. 29th
30 5 big rollers. Woke from night's being with him, head out of the curtains, he's woken in the hospital-like bed opposite. Says "You're happy!" Nod. Someone else's bed next. Why do I sleep in a bed with all the curtains closed? But speaking to him, his gentle elisions, gone. Myself in the porch bed thinking I could learn to move with that melting out, to be gone before him. Most satin warm-skinned muscle body, thigh skin. I can touch it all. She doesn't love to touch my skin. My big double root I can feel now. that I can imagine just the surfaces I want, palms touching quickly everywhere, the wide thing just in the ring and I'm sucking with my mouth inside my mouth. What I don't want is the whole heavy logic of the real body, what I can have is the touch like a drawing, put my thighs up in weightlessness. That our mechanism is to be hooked on wanting to find what we've had already, and to be loosed into this life by remembering having had it. Giving up the telephone book column. George [MacLean] pastor. Ha! The fat emperor knees apart tiny fingers pompous eunuch scribble. It means fear. "It won't make the boys want to look at her." Daphne and Apollo. What does it mean, you're turned into a tree. The heart still beating in the wood, he says he'll wear her laurels, she nods her crown yes. "Well McLeod, what's up," in her parody. He's violent, she doesn't protect, is she violent too, I will give up my allure, my leg is her man, to be safe from the father and safe with her. The story of Ellie who at 5 called a conference and asked her father why he wanted to kill her. He said he'd give up his gun but he didn't. Years stubbornly looking to know what is glamour, what is gender, what is dream and image, what is alternative to these. Valere to be well and strong. Valley valence valiance validity arch. Health, vallare to protect with a wall, valval, valva leaf of a door. What is geometry in relation to these. I dreamed I was lying under the sea. Then I realized I wasn't lying under the sea, I was what's under the sea. Intervening among the necessities. Open eye birth.
in broad perspective, the whole program of the unconscious There's a surrounding, it's in color, the colors are next to each other in combinations that delight. Single things say I am to me. What is color. Color is feeling. Sound recording technician / body image finder Thoughts. Let them float sink mount according to their own To the composer of my dream: Psychic motion. Freely in its laws If it crosses to show a definite idea it is no longer a dream. A feeling tone associated with each structure Does the little one get DNA movies. Teaching.
Das fliessende Licht love, as the sun shines into the water and yet leaves the water undisturbed I saw with the true eyes of my eternity, in sweet effortless bliss. your gifts with which you touch me without pause That it feels like the love of an other, coming toward it. I saw this tree : like a rose. the everlasting human that floats there in the everlasting god Eidos are the understructure, "We are in the land of the soul." The soul is the entire space and time of the womb. Like so many of the retarded blind his favorite motion was a perpetual rocking with his hand fanning above his sunken eyes as if to cast shadows into the pit of darkness. It was like coming into a glaringly bright room after spending months in a cave. probe was a solid ram battering a tight gelatinous doorway Suddenly there was a ripping, a rush of warmth, a falling forward. He was propelled through. He began to scream. awoke on a broad plane above him were levels of peachlit crystal lay back and imagined himself a bottom dwelling sea creature looking up through layers. The peachcolored light bathed him in warmth. His body was radiant. He was caught in a giant hand. a hologram containing a few million smaller holograms 1st September The children aren't in school. The New Pacific this morning and put up on the wall. Go out in clean clothes, buy half pound of ling cod, 88 cents, onions, tomatoes, pears, watermelon. Phoning College Printers and about the projector. Coming up the steps with the bag in arm. Footsteps behind. Laugh to see. Instant: the Japanese jacket, good head, better. "Why did you say hm." "It was the echo." She leaves the bag on the window sill. I am laying the fish in three pieces onto the hot bacon fat and garlic, surface whitens and opaques. She's in the chair at the window. She is getting familiarly into my bed! Under the pink blanket, sandals in the door frame. I find there is rice left, wash it, foaming talc, three rinses. For two sheets eight page tabloid it's $344. Once again see the blind girl sleeping I'll never know, but hands her glasses to be put somewhere. I can stare, round eyelid, she can feel the stare, I'll stop. It's unendable strangeness. No one would look less strange. Having a beautiful pot to take from the oven. "There's rice!" "I know." "Did you hear me washing it?" "I heard it hit the pot." Sssss. I heard the brush. "It's very accomplished. It's your preference. There's quite a lot of joy in it." "Would you like something else, tea?" Breaks - "I'm delighted you like it." This morning up the stairwell "I hear you're doing a performance." Diana naked holding onto her doorframe. "Diana! You'll do anything for attention." The laugh like a cry of apprehension as if I've turned into another type. Embryology books. The horrible images of dead babies, 'atlases' of a particular dead-looking tissue cross section. I am upstream in an unaccountably sealed off fresh source. There's a sensation, but thin, of having made the crossing. Thin as in memory, and already past the pour of spontaneous ordering. Yesterday lay down in the afternoon, slept till 9:30, today in the bus could hardly bear the dragging so long in its toxic shell, need to eat, not struggling against personalities, but easily exhausted, need long stretches of robot reading, newspaper, Omni. Yesterday sent a letter, am expecting and not, the foam on the floor, or nothing, it's my concentrated event, that is the moment that will or won't exist. "It lets you feel you're in the process, it makes you want to do more." - Violence. In all instances they had been exposed to the actual violence of one parent. So they had to defend themselves against the threat of infanticide. Other parent detachment and seductive façade. That parents did not love each other and the parent of the opposite sex preferred them. Target of jealous retaliation. Only way to save their lives was to change their sex. Really belonging to the sex preferred by the threatening parent It's the same sex one who's violent Assertion, appearance and mannerism Greater the resistance, the more repetition rather than recollection His only hope of love and thereby safety 3rd Wanting you to get by not imagining me intimate - put her head near my shoulder, the soft side of her jaw, I could love you up - what was it about her four pages - ! you're jealous and not willing to put it out straight - can I take the challenge, like a plunge, I'll show, "They said something I needed someone to tell me" - looking remote - "What are you thinking?" - "Drifted away" - ! you won't let yourself feel it - we stare - the cut of her mouth - her fine proud face, I can look like that too - like pride but blank behind - the sense I should go home, there's nothing we can do - that it would be right to go - directly and quietly - we'd admire. (Was full moon.) 4th To myself in this weekend the question was why don't I love her, I'm not seeing her. The loud wrangling that has sometimes been followed by mind. Exhaustion and willessness swell bruised brain. A tendency to act helpless, to appeal. Eloquent statement brings tears. "We'll both go on for the rest of our lives committed to those limits." I set out the balanced demands but I hold something back, she brings me to say part of it but I don't get out of her the part she's holding. What I hold prevents me seeing. "You secreted part of yourself with her." "Yes I didn't trust you." Today, saying it to T. "Your speaking to me about this today." "It's essential, that kind of talk." "You always have it." "Yes." "I don't understand why she doesn't want to. It makes me unsure of myself." 5th Setting the garden table up. That isn't important. In a fiction sociability it is: I think of it as being in her system to think that significant. [idea of making a newspaper with Jam, the South China Morning Post] How will the printing render photographs. Reduce the xerox. A grey black page. Doodles. Over lap the spine. C's. A story about her. White writing. Phrases. DR. Who the initials. Dorothy Richardson. The underline. Composition for front and back soakthrough and showthrough at points. What is a page. Finger prints. Texture. Pressure print. Stones. Review of. The paper's feel. Labour Day. Garden setting stones, clearing. Heavy one. About do I want to pick blueberries. Wants to grind. Was clouded (but not yesterday - wrote a song to the ...). Could do nothing else - was calculating off mistakes - and then the moment she's across the table in the face (when she has it do I not) I would, I thought, do it with, what she was telling was her happiness when it was there, "I'd like it if it were you, and I think you would like it too, though we don't talk about that." My fire says yes I would like it. The light of her living room floor and it tottering through. The firm people fearlessly speaking. "This is important, Siobhan is mad at Sarah." And interested in each other. Faye Dunaway head sideways delighted laughing. ("Rather shy.") Blueberry house acre and road. The dyke and far out marsh and Strait. The dead flat green reach to shades of blue. Far off at the water edge bird, flock, the way it ribbons up, I say ah! as she does, both at one spot on the horizon. The cattails tall flipt. ('Grain in movement.') Swallows fold fall ta dup ta dup ta-a. At the marge a heavier bird, a great business bird, whose wings labour and bend. It's gravel. We wrap in blue, Ezra along my back, heat. Dropping down rust clover heads dandelion silver a little poplar with two yellow leaves in the hearts two birds veer not together but knowing where the other. Fireweed pink the marsh spike, blue-purple aster into among the reeds, cattails disrupt, spill out, long way. That light. A solid silver line. Out of blue blue blue white white lights the land we saw it is. The marches. The tiny white sails. The far shore. The estuary flat original flat beyond. "Because it's blue and green." And the big sky. The hanger after hanger of dresses A dress color slope a dress take off its hanger a dress a dress downslope rim a dress take off its hanger the dresses not new all clean New York theatre my mother brought them every one for me put on the yellow silk tight at the hip into the classroom the big leg under image tight at the hip "very simply cut" snap at the shoulder, "They're fifties" the stretch of neck over them Audrey Hepburn's face a live fur glisten a glistening fur and diamonds You will see in them your fond natural possession, a voice of your life. Wakings at dawn by a mosquito bite on the wrist, or the smell alarm of chemical dump. 6 o'clock. Sunken mornings coming up from neutral dreams, there are phrase summaries too. In the Lotus Lounge suffering the music and the waiters' contempt as pain across the diaphragm. Looking in notes remembering the under the river dream. I was on the way to Sexsmith. I had taken it always as a. To Sexsmith to be born. Snatched my loaf of baloney. An operation on not leg but sex.
T: "So much knowledge." J. I say she's afraid of it. She says capacity. I say it's the same. She hasn't the concept of armouring or cutting. Her argument is, in all our questions, that she's differently made. I come to think I should go on because she is vowed to a foundation lie and isn't going to be able to enlarge to include it. Or she will as she says live in a different world and it's I who don't let myself enlarge to include it and so stay in middleworld common system. (The carelessness, house, person, 'wonderful,' 'great,' 'amazing.) - The beautiful syllable songs. Carefully laying tracks in the common and then - the fight with Roy, about keeping and making and communicating accurate records. "Everyone's story is different!" To C in gladness. Accountant. Thinking of self-found jobs. 10th Waking at J's that the religion's language so openly campaigned for the fathers and that it was never seen as that. Our congregation gathered singing about the father and son. The singing beautiful.
Perhaps what is involved is the possibility of reactivating the experience of early childhood undergoing the crisis of this particular reactivation in the midst of language the second birth this Dionysiac birth now roams over his own backlands that child who doesn't forget J'ouis sens I heard meaning in consciousness between I and the other, the dissimilarity (negativity) the Other a hypothetical place or space coveted but also feared, murderous and sentenced to die The piece is good when, as a piece of the future [notes on how to set tiles] the keen creative smell of damp paper The dump. 12th What the relation is of explanation/rhetoric to the tactile. Tâter. Double script.
Visual noting, if it recalls the loved thing it's loved, or the phrase is deposited, doesn't recall, but does something else. The writing (whole) (membrane) has moved creation into sensitive to line end chances, word replacement (membrane) doing what it says, leaving connections outside of the forming. 15 Two-spirit people. Set down the white colander with gold yellow plums and one sprig of leaf. They all bent forward eagerly. ! Happy. Then sat with arms looser around knees. 'Essence.' "An emotional indication" a tone an angle of tone colors coded by angles "Little pats all over." Standing looking and touching. The blue veins of the dry chest skin, mouth swelled child. The look she saw and didn't know, not distress, seeing, being about to see, being alone, dilating, what will this be, will I love her again. "It can't be like this." Alright but this time I know what I did want. "I just want to get out of this." Ladder over head. In the bus on the way home, the ladder from back seat to floor. Leaning against it, relaxed dirty hand on it, white Indian shirt with tears, snags. Our talking like people and the inner holding back from it. It's an inner bow back from the surface of the present before one. Bus seats, gardens passing, the other one. In those times Chinese never not.
Last night with energy turning there the instant lying in the east room of catching hold, holding on. "This is like that moment before." "But maybe it was from falling asleep." "I'm being superceded." By the group? (Today - by one of mine?) T on the phone. "What do you think is frightening about imagination?" [I ask]. "It's chaos. The place of creation." "Yes." Settled. "I don't like Marie's body, I don't want to be like her in ANY WAY." [Marie is somebody in Jam's women-of-color group.]
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