Thursday, May 31, 2012

Koszmar

He had stumbled upon a dark continent slowly sinking into his unconsciousness. That strange land he called Insomnia where no stranger had ever stepped. Each familiar face beckoned to his; those wandering eyes boring into his own vacuous slits squinted toward the sun. Every transfiguration documented his uncanny travels to the dim-lit recess of being. In awaking he grasped after each well-mapped path, but the contours and shapes of this land's oneirography dissolves and disappears utterly in the day. Tonight he will purchase another one-way ticket toward his final destination and follow that thread down. His bags already packed with a presentiment of death. To doze, to snooze among the mazes of dreams. To ask which is he is to already answer: minotaur or labyrinth?

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

To Term

Words were released today, words one should avoid online unless one preferred unnecessary governmental intrusions into one's personal life. One should always avoid the unnecessary. But some basic words should be employed regularly: basic words like response, smart, aid, ice. One finds it difficult, if not downright impossible, to avoid such words, such unnecessary linguistic, terminological intrusions. One finds that one's words often betray oneself, announcing one's guilt with every innocent utterance. One dreams of releasing other words that should be avoided at all costs, words that betray a vocabulary of guilt and betrayal. Basic words like freedom, God, democracy. Basic words that have no basis in that which we call reality. Perhaps reality, or at least a certain register of reality, should be added to one's list of impossibly unavoidable words. And now two more basic words: closure, relief. One welcomes and awaits the intrusions...

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

The Rites of the Storm

We woke up early today, earlier than usual. But no day's sleep can really be called that: usual. Even after resorting to sleeping apart. Alone. Last night it was the storm that did its work to undo his dreams. The night before: the cat slinking in to settle on his chest, weighing on it like the burden of sleeplessness. Tonight he's certain it will be something else, perhaps something thus far unperceived, unacknowledged: a spider bite like the one suffered in Japan all those years ago. His ankle swollen the size of a grape and then of a golf ball. Or the city's sirens warning of the impending tornado. Spring is a violent season. Perhaps only Stravinsky understood just how violent, with Diaghilev backstage flashing the lights off and on. There was that storm in Paris ninety-nine years ago today, the day we again woke up far too early.