CORDONS
for
a short amount of time, it might be the succession of just a few
seconds, or a few seconds in no succession at all, shards of time
spread out over an inarticulate plain, banana peels slipping in and
out of slapstick contexts, hot oil leaping out of a frying pan to
turn your neck into a writhing miracle, - you know what i mean - what i am
talking about; all the tiny jolts that lets you know you are about to
be possessed by an other, or letting you know that an other is
about to possess you. you find yourself somewhere in the
kitchen, working hard to resist the impulse of calling it god.
resisting the urge to further abstract the already abstract, and please don't mind me writing that you would say it like this:
"he was extrapolating dearly
on something quite singular"
the already unfathomable chasm of
nothingness smiles back at your pretense to plaster a smile upon its
nothingness. now, and here it shows; the puny hand of an entity
completely devoid of being bodily succinct, touching you to let you
know that it is not fully out of reach, that there is an element
of warmth that can yet be perceived. you are touched by embers, and
wanting to remember, you name the embers and insert your experience
of the glow on a neat scale. you say:
"this
is happening now"
when
in fact you know that it is more likely that it never happened/ or will never happen at all. you say:
"i
can feel the body of christ"
when
in fact you know that it is more likely that there doesn't exist/ will never be a
transcaction of intimacy at all. you are sitting alone in the
kitchen. rather; you are standing alone in the kitchen, pondering how
a multitude of artefacts could come together to perform a dull
symphony. you want me to write:
"it
will be as if nothing ever happened"
but
we both wish to avoid lying. soon you will be fed, and the
notion of otherness will gradually leave your body and give way to a particular
sense of loss. your belly will remind you of your mother, and for a
while, not long, you will attribute all unplanned occurences to an
overwhelming sensation of nostalgia. the kind of melancholy that makes you pick up
a phone, dial a number you know by heart and then hang up just after the
first ring. but it is not true. something did not not-happen; you went
into a room to pick something up. you forgot what it was you wanted
to pick up. you stood in a room trying to trace the inner workings of
your desires. you wanted me to write:
"time
went by in an unsolicited manner"
instead
i listened, as you grew silent with expectance, and wrote:
"he
went back into the kitchen, thinking that nothing had happened. a
cigarette. he looked at the phone. it seemed brand new. the frying
pan was left unused"
then
the phone rang, and none of us answered.
