that after the freedom of the
state of grace also comes the freedom of the imagination also happens. At this
very moment I am free.
And beyond the freedom, beyond the certain void I create
the calmest of repeating musical waves. The madness of free invention. Do you
want to see it with me? Landscape where this music happens? air, green stems,
the spread-out sea, silence of a Sunday morning. A slender man with only one
foot has one great transparent eye in the middle of his forehead. A feminine
entity slinks up on all fours, says in a voice that seems to come from another
space, voice that sounds not like the first voice but in echo of a primary voice
that was never heard. The voice is awkward, euphoric and says by force of the
habit of a past life: would you like some tea? And doesn’t wait for a reply. She
grabs a slim ear of golden wheat, and puts it between her toothless gums and
pads away on all fours with her eyes open. Eyes immobile as the nose. She needs
to move her whole boneless head to look at an object. But what object? The
slender man meanwhile has fallen asleep on his foot and let his eye fall asleep
without however closing it. Letting your eye fall asleep is about not wanting to
see. When it doesn’t see, it sleeps. In the silent eye the plain is reflected in
a rainbow. The air is marvellous. The musical waves start again. Someone looks
at their nails. There’s a sound in the distance going: psst, psst! . . . But the
man-with-just-one-foot could never imagine that they are calling him. A sound
starts up from the side, like the flute that always seems to play from the side
—a sound starts up from the side that crosses the musical waves without a
tremor, and repeats so long that it ends up carving out the rock with its
uninterrupted dripping. It’s a highly elevated sound, without friezes. A lament
that’s happy and measured and sharp like the non-strident and sweet sharpness of
a flute. It’s the highest and happiest note that a vibration can give. No man on
earth could hear it without going mad and starting to smile forever. But the man
standing on his only foot—sleeps upright. And the feminine being stretched out
on the beach isn’t thinking. A new character crosses the deserted plain and
disappears limping. You hear: psst; psst! And no one is called.
Now the scene my freedom created is over.
I’m sad. An uneasiness that comes because the ecstasy
doesn’t fit into the life of the days. Sleep should follow the ecstasy to
attenuate its vibration of echoing crystal. The ecstasy must be forgotten.
The days. I got sad because of the diurnal light of steel
in which I live. I breathe the smell of steel in the world of the objects.
But now I want to say things that comfort me and that are
a little free. For example: Thursday is a day transparent as an insect’s wing in
the light. Just as Monday is a compact day. Ultimately, far beyond thought, I
live from these ideas, if ideas is what they are. They are sensations that
transform into ideas because I must use words. Even just using them mentally.
The primary thought thinks with words. The “freedom” frees itself from the
slavery of the word.
And God is a monstrous creation. I fear God because he is
too total for my size. And I also feel a kind of modesty toward Him: there are
things of mine that not even He knows. Fear? I know a she who is terrified by
butterflies as if they were supernatural. And the divine part of butterflies is
terrifying indeed. And I know a he who shivers in horror before flowers—he
thinks that flowers are hauntingly delicate like a sigh of nobody in the
dark.
I am the one listening to the whistling in the dark. I
who am sick with the human condition. I revolt: I no longer want to be a person.
Who? who has mercy on us who know about life and death where an animal I envy
profoundly—is unconscious of its condition? Who takes pity on us? Are we
abandoned? given over to despair? No, there must be a possible consolation.
state of grace also comes the freedom of the imagination also happens. At this
very moment I am free.
And beyond the freedom, beyond the certain void I create
the calmest of repeating musical waves. The madness of free invention. Do you
want to see it with me? Landscape where this music happens? air, green stems,
the spread-out sea, silence of a Sunday morning. A slender man with only one
foot has one great transparent eye in the middle of his forehead. A feminine
entity slinks up on all fours, says in a voice that seems to come from another
space, voice that sounds not like the first voice but in echo of a primary voice
that was never heard. The voice is awkward, euphoric and says by force of the
habit of a past life: would you like some tea? And doesn’t wait for a reply. She
grabs a slim ear of golden wheat, and puts it between her toothless gums and
pads away on all fours with her eyes open. Eyes immobile as the nose. She needs
to move her whole boneless head to look at an object. But what object? The
slender man meanwhile has fallen asleep on his foot and let his eye fall asleep
without however closing it. Letting your eye fall asleep is about not wanting to
see. When it doesn’t see, it sleeps. In the silent eye the plain is reflected in
a rainbow. The air is marvellous. The musical waves start again. Someone looks
at their nails. There’s a sound in the distance going: psst, psst! . . . But the
man-with-just-one-foot could never imagine that they are calling him. A sound
starts up from the side, like the flute that always seems to play from the side
—a sound starts up from the side that crosses the musical waves without a
tremor, and repeats so long that it ends up carving out the rock with its
uninterrupted dripping. It’s a highly elevated sound, without friezes. A lament
that’s happy and measured and sharp like the non-strident and sweet sharpness of
a flute. It’s the highest and happiest note that a vibration can give. No man on
earth could hear it without going mad and starting to smile forever. But the man
standing on his only foot—sleeps upright. And the feminine being stretched out
on the beach isn’t thinking. A new character crosses the deserted plain and
disappears limping. You hear: psst; psst! And no one is called.
Now the scene my freedom created is over.
I’m sad. An uneasiness that comes because the ecstasy
doesn’t fit into the life of the days. Sleep should follow the ecstasy to
attenuate its vibration of echoing crystal. The ecstasy must be forgotten.
The days. I got sad because of the diurnal light of steel
in which I live. I breathe the smell of steel in the world of the objects.
But now I want to say things that comfort me and that are
a little free. For example: Thursday is a day transparent as an insect’s wing in
the light. Just as Monday is a compact day. Ultimately, far beyond thought, I
live from these ideas, if ideas is what they are. They are sensations that
transform into ideas because I must use words. Even just using them mentally.
The primary thought thinks with words. The “freedom” frees itself from the
slavery of the word.
And God is a monstrous creation. I fear God because he is
too total for my size. And I also feel a kind of modesty toward Him: there are
things of mine that not even He knows. Fear? I know a she who is terrified by
butterflies as if they were supernatural. And the divine part of butterflies is
terrifying indeed. And I know a he who shivers in horror before flowers—he
thinks that flowers are hauntingly delicate like a sigh of nobody in the
dark.
I am the one listening to the whistling in the dark. I
who am sick with the human condition. I revolt: I no longer want to be a person.
Who? who has mercy on us who know about life and death where an animal I envy
profoundly—is unconscious of its condition? Who takes pity on us? Are we
abandoned? given over to despair? No, there must be a possible consolation.
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