Note 7

Let me analyse the unawakened state. its a detachment made in horror you know.
a mode of failed justification, seperation in an unkindled morning.

lets burrow. into sleep and there will the flipping deception of an uncreated mind release some insight that lives above, away from the knowing mind, like ungraspable sunlight. Yes to yearn for the frame and borders of the window to fall away, for you to fall heedlessly, endlessly into the garden, as others, as others always fall into life. But there, the things have no meaning, they have no meaning, for they never had, and they never will.

Note 6

Should i have gone for the halloween party of deprived fun mongers, a series of forgotten rituals on a misnomed Saturday night, as you put on the paper knife and the fake blood that drips from foamless lips? No, we would enter, bemused at the stupidly faithful, at those who have failed to chase and caress their fading childhood memories before finding them hollow and shrifted, like hay in a forgotten barn, as they stumble into coats too deep for tiny ribcages, into myth too hollow for parody and mockery, into attempts too forced for genuine laughter. A social or a collaboration of drunkards? Are we more honest in an otherwordly suit? With mascara so thick it shuts distempered eyes? Remember, orientals - we begin another ritual, imitation upon imitation, mockery itself a device. And so what if the wasted vampires tether, dreaming of real blood?

Note 5

Nothing aids respite from alien forms better than the stillness of winter in a British bus. The experience is unbearable for many as it is sweet liberation for me. One eavesdrops on various forms of life: in the front, bespectacled asians bunched up and huddled in coats, twittering like sparrows, in the middle czech boys and black men, middle class university types expressive of melancholy roots sitting in odd positions, weirdly incongruous and emblematic, black coats against a gentrified landscape of neat blue seats, and elsewhere the whites who seem to perform a division of labour according to time of day: nerds in the day and drunkards at night, silence and contemplation in sunlight and morning, and freedom and matehood and cunthood against the dark, streetlighted panes, while the chill of damp evenings fall around us.

The bus ambles past the Sainsburys before turning into the highway. There the factories give way to a view of the full green countryside, bound by trees shaded in green, orange and yellow, planted in neat rows set against a gently sloping valley. The golden sunlight plays upon our faces, and the dews on the windowpanes glitter. Then the factories approach again, and so the University comes into view.

Note 4

Again you recollect that chill of unsupported desolation as you picked the land that was carved and divided by the strange sounding sea.

What was it I was attempting to do? Did something or someone get in the way? I caught your glances in oblique angles, across a shelful of handphones, of antiquated, forgotten communication devices, wired and meaningless, and something broke, and I awoke with your presence all about me.

Note 3

If one is rich in the passionate flow of ideas, one cannot read or listen, and the moment itself is twisted into a confusing mix of anxiety, elation, constantly tuned and strained in its rapt channelling of spontaneous thoughts. The airless, sterile landscape of the room changes and vistas slam open; life gasps with possibility, snaking its way into secret passageways of thought.

Here is the monumental alley, the tranfiguration of the massive dreamscape that makes one feel so small. Or there the structural overview, the map of the world flashing to reveal its dynamic organization, or its endless, trapping layers of contradictory functions. Perspectives come in waves, and so does growth, deceit and misery.

Note 2

Thoughts left unwritten or words left unsaid are like residue and waste left undischarged in the body; they remain to stain and damage the organs that depend on purity to sustain the possibilty of a renewed creative union with the present.

Perhaps part of the process of the constitution of the personality lies in this: a protest of the mind against an unresolved memory, a series of problems, felt with all the intuitive force and power of a sensitive soul, left unresolved by all the cognitive solutions and rationalizations of learning and thought, left unburied by all the sandy, worthless layers of the chattering, insistent present, thereby shaping, framing, deforming it, turning perception into a prisoner's art.

And so, the tension between the forgotten future and the wasted past mixes into the visions of a damned, hapless present.

Note 1

A surprise for me again, to look upon the world with lowered eyes, to plumb the endless pipes of your thoughts, and to discover how little the world thinks, how little it wants to think, with what difficulty it ellides the whirl of the senses, or how we are but broken boats floating on the surface of the deepest sea, riding the forceful currents of the present, tiding this way and that to the tune of the loneliest stars latched in the loftless dark.

We seem to be caught in an endless seasonal drift, the constant patterns, like the soft shedding evening lights that spill around the spines of cool shaded buildings in which children play, in shadowed ruins at once homey and familiar and hallowed with sacred memory, strengthening in fleshly perfomance, against the ghost of the receding present.

So the sand recedes from beach where the lighthouse once stood, and where the calm rocks brace the winds. Where was the peak to which we clamber, caught in some essential ectasy?