Sunday, May 16, 2010

Struck numb sleeping through life

A personal reconnaissance, like something Henry Miller would write - writing to that empty invisible other which he assumed would exist one day (when exactly did it arrive?) - an accounting, a catalog of grief, woes, pains, damage done, glancing blows where I impact the world as it spins and it throws me off again, into space (not empty like Other but full of "experiences"), always trying and trying to wrap something in words and mummify it, to set it down, to stick it with pins and bleed it, press it against the paper, make Rorschach blots, interpret the tea leaves, looking in and through the dregs to some other side, and then - what? Kicked in the head again. Numb. Stroke-pressed, caught in a vice, in an alien world, drifting free from my moorings, reach down deep and find other cliches from other worlds, other people, other centuries, push them up towards the light and posture and hide in their shadows, hope the Other "understands". But with understanding comes...what? Relief? What I hope for is a return to clarity, to what I assumed was sanity even though the pain of alienation felt like it could be too much to bear. I watched and waited and hoped something would change, or that I would change and move into a new life, and then...one wants to flee back to former worlds. There is a stability in death, in that silence. Drifting, covered with dust, eyes open, hidden away, peering through the cracks in the wall, catching the circling of sunlight through the day. Dawn and light in one's eyes, a blinding, the warmer light of midmorning and noon, the growing heat, the glaring, flashing, steel light of the afternoon and me, inside, drowning in falling plaster, sickly, wanting to bleed it all out again, eyes on the passing possibilities: what will this person offer me? What new prey to devour? What can I eat and absorb and use to move myself one inch further down the path of fate? Spiders, now?

U. Amtey
12 May 2005