i love

...your head, it's beautiful.

i have uninterrupted pulses, purposefully enduring, i suppose. i've always watched faces, my own, others. it can be quite disconcerting for people. i'm not looking for anything. a more remote level, maybe. a quiet one. i did realize early on that i'm not an observer. i may be vigilant, but i don't gainsay the order of my passions, i like sensual elements in others. but in other words, i like the care around your eyes, the brow in precise arrangement paused, a direct carving, in the streets of paris. (or probably in the studio above). like, i manage perplexed indignation rather then repose, but i hardly ever retreat into confusion anymore. i think i might manage dim-witted, more often than not. hahaha. the sexual corruption of beauty, of having lay down in light. over and over and over. until these dumbass fucking laws are revoked, i think i'll stay there out of pity for anyone who needs it. so if it's rhythm, meat and meat. okay.

like, how you avail yourself (unsaid or not overdetermined) the metaphor of the labyrinth, in describing berlin and the spaces you wander. i was wondering if any divey bar could be described so. of course. and before, with smoking, yes. yes of course. heard indistinctly, above the music, above the dancers. whatever the source. this might be visionary. or prophetic, if prophecy is the ages old setting down of rhythms. from before... this will be. these four corners will trace the discipline of a collective work, and the machinery of creation will run, and you do know yes that the angel announced the unsayable into Mary's ear? right. the horn was blown into the ear. well, clearly, there are priorities. i am listening to bert jansch, he's doing the american traditional "katie cruel". atemporal.

When I first came to town
They call me the roving jewel
Now they've change their tune
Call me Katie Cruel

Through the woods I'm going
through the boggy mire
Straight way down the road back home
to my heart's desire

yay. or like when i was in Toledo, with el greco. The stacked composition, the rows of packed figures, and the weird, accordion-pleated space of an uncanny masterpiece

i can only sustain anne carson for so long, for example. and i always go back. no one seems to be giving anyone another option. like, are you fucking kidding me?

xo

ps. i was thinking about what you said there was a moment in ephraim where i thought of you. a moment when merrill's voice says something about using a language that's just above everyone's head, including his. yes. and no. mythologies (there it is again), hierarchies (according to?), consciousness (the ground...? of what?), stories by proxy (this is a resplendant "yes". why not. this is how i tell stories. about feelings. heh). sitting, for one minute even, in being. gratitude, for being talked to, danced with, at all. from wiki:

"It depends not on consciousness, but on being; not on thought, but on life; it depends on the individual's empirical development and manifestation of life, which in turn depends on the conditions existing in the world." karl marx

tell that to the woods. i think that sapling over there might have a thing, or two.