I woke this morning wanting to write. Did you feel this too? You may be a writer! There’s a broken connection between things and it’s hard to name. Ten minutes into the day and already you feel alone. Yep. You’ve got the scribbler’s fancy alright. its best to write something.
Like: what did Judas do with his money?
Like: if you put your nose against the riverbank can you describe the smell in a single word?
I know these are foolish examples.
Years ago while visiting the former Soviet Union I sat up in my hotel bed and thought, “the microphones in the walls can’t hear my stream of consciousness! Ha!”
Meanwhile, just now, there’s the undeciphered day.
I hope you’re writing.
It will be September soon and our living stands still.
Now crickets sing at night and wave their canes.
Summer went by so fast.
The ships of dream sit together in the moonlight.
I don’t know much.
Birds are passing.
Derrida says animals are naked without knowing it which in turn means they’re not naked. Very well. But animals are also clothed without knowing which means what? Oh, back to nakedness. I get it now! No one can escape nakedness! Well then, Jacques, just say it.
When I wake and stand, a hinge moves in my lower back. It’s the Darwin hinge. It says, I’m no longer a horse–as I was in dreams.
The bus crawls through the summer evening.
You see, I’m all over the place: morning, evening, up river and down.
Here’s to the walking wind as summer disappears.