draft 1
ONE
Up there, there is the sun; I can’t help but smile, it’s simply all-encompassing delight, that eternal light up there in the blue is so warm, makes everything so damn hot too! it pushes hard in wake of movement, a fat man in the dense crowd who tripped on his own feet. it gives life to a great mechanical majesty, it seems to turn every gear of the clock in fact it runs through everything I’ve ever thought of, its a long twisted crack in the bubble of a profoundly complete and tragic, hypothetical stasis — it bulges up from beneath a horrifying, involuting wave. Up here on this mountain summit, I stand halfway in between the sun and my house, just down that mountain path. within and between this god-damned machine, I am thoroughly entrenched, entos hymen: I heard it called that once, I think.
I will surely spend the rest of my days up on this ledge. This is my birth place and burial site, these fields are coffin, I cadavre. I stop trying to squirm out from deeply buried capsule— all that is left is to eat this god damned dirt, I need something to fucking eat god dammit, something to breath after all and don’t feed me those god damn nuts one more time, you see, I’m just choosing not to let my desperation change me.
Nowadays I transmutate into such and such, sometimes I am a fern or the potential of electrostatic agitation, and then I am the bolt that rips through three ancient trees half a mile down the path. I am, I am a house fly born at the end of october. I wonder, is it always this cold nowadays? Can I feel that I am secluded on a concrete terrace in the middle of the night, the only living housefly in the hemisphere maybe… Am I just buzzing around? I am just a lonely fly, yes? ALAS, I am trapped in a spinning web that I —. I look out from this dizzying height, I observe the machinery that pushes at the corners of the unknown universe. I reach out from the center of my map; I retrace my steps, even as my footprints become dusted away. I retrace my steps, I want to show the way up to this mountaintop, and you will breath the clearest most transparent air and ascend beyond clouds of so many shapes on your way. But I am sure that it would be impossible for you to find me, I will burn the map and throw it into the hole where I shit, what good is navigating a pile of ash and shit?
I come here after having completed my most pressing obligation, of course I would like to imagine that my duty is done. But I still left many things incomplete, so many utterly ‘universal’ obligations. I guess that it’s just plain ignorant to think that I will somehow graduating it all. What do I know? I’m ostensibly dumber than anyone who would ever read this, and I suppose no one will. Don’t read this, you’re just ruining it for yourself. This will, of course, eventually become shit in the hole, just like everything else I try to digest.
ONE
As I look up at this great face of stone, what a large stone wall this is, vines with wide leaves stretch across its surface, incalculable twists and contortions — I have to only turn my gaze slightly and see yet another defiant, disorderly tangram of leaf and leaf. I often pass hours of my day running these vines through my hands, stretching and straightening. A recent infatuation with order, obsession with cleanliness, I should make it all much cleaner I think — I was not always this neat — yet the nature and wildlife is quite clean up here. You might not expect it, but I am astounded by the pristine mountain. All the trees and air and vines are quite clean. I can barely disturb the position of a dried-up pine cone without scolding myself afterward. I’d prefer not to move things from their natural positions while I’m here, I’m quite a dirty animal.
Now and then I become a tiny house fly. I was born out of the cycle, on the last day of october. Yes, I am that october fly, all I have to do is fly about — I am thrust into this cold nature’s temporal distortion, disgusting, unclean. I fly about in this white, frosted world, my black body falls and crackles on the snowy surface, I — a crazy iris — I sit at the far edge of this Japanese pond. Am I a piece of tissue paper? And that lump wrapped in cloth, it must be a girl, someone said. Yeah, that’s what they told me, it’s that girl who went crazy after the atomic bomb. And who is she, whose soggy kimono rises to and breaks the serene surface of that water? I know her…? She’s familiar, but after all, she’s utterly dead. She floated up two weeks after it happened — I suppose she had volunteer’s sickness, that’s what they call it, isn’t it? It made those poor Japanese girlies completely fucking insane.
And so here I am, and it’s just like deja vu. Why am I up here now, completely alone… I’m friends with a rabbit, and a racoon, and a jutting precipice, and a hardwood with yellow and red leaves, and all of those leaves — and the green ones too of course — all of these things bear into me, and I scream and come right back at them, and the rabbits run away and the trees do nothing but stand, and they all return in due course, except… of course for the ones that don’t ever come back i suppose.
This air is so empty and clear, here at the summit of this mountain. I live here, at the very top, and I peer down at the dizzying landscapes below. From here I see the great machine, the great, crazy machine that flung me in and out. It stretches and pulls at the corners of all horizons; it will never stop! I look around me, and I am at the very center of my map. I can’t say I see the ground at all anymore, just those clouds, filled with rain and, well, let’s say deceptively opaque. But this map… it depicts a labyrinth with no center, no endpoint, at all. So as I retrace my steps, I can’t help but grin. This map lead me to nowhere but here. And then it was raining, and the lines fade on the paper and there is no more route at all. But I’m still staring at this god damn paper.
ONE
I’ve finally escaped! All these labyrinthian walls, they’re simply collapsing, who would have imagined it to be so simple?! So much time and work in putting them up, only for this? And to think, just as they were assembled, they are taken apart, brick by brick, not smashed away at all. A machine that has run out of control, it outruns me as well. I relish the final phase of this dreaming state. I stand naked on my cliff, I shout and cry at all of you, listen and hear me! I came into these vast precipices, did you feel that too? Because when I stare up, I realize I am just looking at another god damned ceiling. A mountainous roof!
Yes, I climbed this mountain to regain a most pure perspective. It is movement, yours and mine, that most inhibits clear sight, after all; when water is still, it becomes lucid. This dizzying rotation, I would slide down and further outward. It must stop though, and I must be still. And so I am still, at the top of this mountain. Soon I will be even stiller, and I will see the depths of myself that are so demented and involuted that I can’t write them consciously. I will see beyond those distant horizons, I will break the lines that are constantly teasing me.
For in these pages, I suppose I am recording just — a fleeting afterthought. It’s already gone, a final glimpse at a fabric that has begun to disjoin itself already. A universe from which I am disjoined, and i suppose thereby one that I fully understand, can’t you see it, it becomes clearer and clearer as it rises from mucky depth to crystal surface, it is within and between us. Here, on this mountain, my last smile at an irony that has occupied me incessantly. I think about my little room as a child, my own solitary space in which I found so much, and from which I could have made even more. I’ve long deserted that space, that house was endlessly extravagant; I only looked through the keyhole, but that was so much in and of itself, wasn’t it?
And as I was dreaming, the world did not wait for me. It was really more like a blink of an eye, barely a sleep at all. And there is always someone sleeping, billions of Chinese, Japanese, Korean and Thai and other oriental people are sleeping right now while the Canadians and Americans and Ecuadorians drag them across the stage in a big sack, and then the occidental themselves pass into sleep, retire into their own dark sack, and are dragged just as such! And this altitude… If I were to fall from these cliffs, I would fall down and down, and will I fall through the ground, deceptively solid — all the way to China. And all of the Chinese steel workers and the Japanese hippies doing heroine in the jungles of Okinawa, they’re all down there, they’re all sleeping right now, most of them…
The early morning sun streaks through the window next to my bed; my face becomes illuminated and filled with warmth. And, softly, I was jettisoned from a whirling confusion: half-waking, I take a last moment to enjoy the softness of the pillow against my cheek before rising to face day.
