Minologos
Nothing takes place. Nothing takes
no place. Becoming remains. Becoming remains and becomes, until becoming fills nothing
to the edge of falling and it no longer moves. No longer stands. It only
flutters, twitches, crackles. Monadic, mumbling monologues. Word-soaked, the
bodies of millenniums drip through the walls, leaving only the mumbling bricks.
He picks one up for himself. The other end is being held.
Nothing disappears
Everything grows
Only blindness believes it can hinder becoming
Everything disappears
Nothing escapes disappearance
Only greed thinks it can hold back disappearance
The fall of the leaf is not the death of the tree
It is life presencing
The withering of the tree is not the death of the forest
It is life becoming
In disappearance we witness the breath of life
And as I disappear in your hands
I become in life
Intuition strikes you like the sting of a distant flame thrower. It jets its spark through the chronotopes of knowledge, in wordless motion. Its face is blank, its lines are inverbal. It just sits there, vibrating, humming like a bee or tearing like a herpes wound. Every time you move away from the path which it has laid out, it returns. Like a signal torching from Epidermia, it calls you in all your wiseness and power. Reminds you that you are far, far away from the unreachable target. Still, you have to tune in and adjust, or move still farther away, trying to cheat it or everything else. Sometimes, you may even manage. Though you have no clue, you may have just then widened the track of intuition. Or just moved in circles. Tangents become circles, if they are bent long enough. Every time you are moved by intuition, away from the circling everyday, a new tangent lends its track. A sting of intuition is enough to break the circle, so it falls apart and becomes a wrinkled remain of life, rotting and sweating. The only way out is to follow the tangent. Again. Again. Take one step and avoid becoming the flotsam of a floating explosion. But every step is a step away from the skin, away from the cradle, away from the bowl of soup drawing the damp snout of the pig, filling it with joy. No bowl, no warm hugs from the arms of the everyday. Just a ticking, stinging pain somewhere, joining the others, until you sting like a whole anthill of stinging, silent explosions. No comfort in the paradox, explosions scream, but not this one. It ties and tightens and bites and gnaws. Explodingly. Only rarely does it allow for a scream, a bolt of rage from the farthest corners of the world. Between that moment of delight and pain and the next one, you will have to wait and long. Or just hang in your life for the remains of the moment when the everyday was splintered and became an eipdermian echo. You become in a fragment of hilarious unimportance. The circle always falls apart. Only what remains, exploding, sting, scream. The tangent stretches and bends and stretches its fold over your barren body, still empty. Gives you its line as a new skin. From then, no return. Not until the day when your skin is no longer new and can no longer carry the stings breaking through. The next stinging explosion and it starts all over again. Scream, empty circle, you will emanate again.
Friends are getting tired.
This morning, the greyness of the day is not just a colour, it's a state of social destiny.
The tired faces look out of their dens and wonder what the use would be of another day, another struggle.
They hear the voices screaming and blame it on the news, the clients, the customerisation.
This is not my day, they whisper. It is the foggy day of staring sheep and we don't know how to face them, keep them from entering the sad remains of our minds.
Friends are going blind.
Their eyes have been staring at pages and papers and words for centuries and they don't seem to change, they seem to come back, repeat themselves instead of repeating birth and becoming.
There is no such thing as the new speech or the new song, there is only newspeak and dull love songs being cast all over and echoing their own echoes until the ears burst as well.
If the wolves had stayed, we would eyes for the night, but they didnøt bother to stay for the slunken sheep, no flesh for their fantasies.
Friends are definitely going mad.
If only the madness had wings
or was a splendid body with a millions organs, all ready to play
unfamiliar games with anyone trying to hold and dissect them.
But
it's the tired madness of lovers gone weary and nagging at each other
with bags in their hands, not really knowing where or why to go, but
longing.
There is a creeping sensation of grass eaten and nothing but sheep surviving outside the madhouse.
No eyes, no ears, tired, and mad.
They write me small and long letters, long sighs from the edge of the abyss of the dull fall of surrender. Will they finally surrender or will someone, somewhere, in a fit of inconsistency, throw the first bomb?
Will we have to end up blowing it all to pieces after all, throwing the hopes and lies into the same pile of unheard dreams and unfinished songs?
They plunge into our sleep with wooly voices and gather around us to watch the fall, comment and rate in on a definite scale of failure impact.
Fingers go stiff, numbed by the cold, today, deafened by the fog that moves into every limb, every joint, today, if it is a day, if it is not just the last nightfall into the eternal grey of repeating that which was already a repetition the first time around.
I want to write a song of relief for my friends - and now see what happened, the sheep took it all away.
Meanwhile, the friends are all gone, into the unquenchable well of facility. The whole scenery is a joke, with only the woolly beasts left to laugh.
They don't, though. Instead, we stare for hours, and every time, the sheep win.
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