The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter.



I thought that if I could put it all down, that would be one way. And next the thought came to me that to leave all out would be another, and truer way.

           Clean-washed sea

                                                                                         The flowers were.

These are examples of leaving out. But, forget as we will, something soon comes to stand in their place. Not the truth, perhaps, but —yourself. It is you who made this, therefore you are true. But the truth has passed on

                                                              To divide all.



Because life is short improvisatory requiring grooves: handed a random page of itself sounds the sticks playing across the drums in shades of idiom in cadences and starts technique not so gone from his memory idiom derived from ear and formula addresses set in marching band “where we learned to play ‘cadences’.” Genetic emulsion of brushes eddies derived from ear’s internal workings gain acquire a small fortune in overture to catch strength from the non-declarative installment by heart from the same issue, and so much we must remember to keep asking it the same question followed by all the rest the lion’s share.



Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.



…only standing for (revealing and concealing at the same time) some ‘other’ thing, some different source of revelation, the reality, the presence of which we are always on the verge of grasping…the gaps between, or beneath words come to seem more important than the words themselves…


-Samuel Beckett—John Ashbery—Marjorie Welish—Wittgenstein—David Punter-


2 thoughts on “Untitled

  1. Derek Walcott: Missing the Sea

    Something removed roars in the ears of this house,
    Hangs its drapes windless, stuns mirrors
    Till reflections lack substance.

    Some sound like the gnashing of windmills ground
    To a dead halt;
    A deafening absence, a blow.

    It hoops this valley, weighs this mountain,
    Estranges gesture, pushes this pencil through a thick nothing now,

    Freights cupboards with silence, folds sour laundry
    Like the clothes of the dead left exactly
    As the dead behaved by the beloved,

    Incredulous, expecting occupancy.

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