Subject: Turning Lines Twisted By Silver Threads
Date: Sun, 23 Aug 1998 16:38:46 -0400 (EDT)


How did we end up in this storm so far away from the mediterranean air
that Nietzsche loved? My mind is freezing up so I can see the jagged
peaks of icebergs and the smooth contours written by the wind on icy
planes. Then I need not think about "any misery in the sound of the
wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land
full of the same wind that is blowing in the same bare place for the
listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is." (The Snow Man,
Wallace Stevens). The cosmogenetic moment is at hand, where grey is
added as color. A long shadow is added to language, a vibrato that
shows as much as it conceals, that teases the heart strings with silver
feathers plucked from a hat holding the distorted motion of laughter coming
from an intoxicated philosopher. Tricks of dissappearance whose,
at times, erratic tempo, makes a hand full of eyes reach out, finds
first of all a motif, "the harnessing of energy, sperm" (see, Klee
_Notebooks_ vol 1 pg 17). 





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