Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2000 10:57:50 -0800 (PST)
Subject: a swirl of dust and ashes



to you all and others too

daring again to enter communi- swirling winds, nourishing, brutal.  maybe
this time, possibly, impossibly, more refined, precise, sensitive to the
voices sometimes hard to listen to.  too loud, faizi's scorn, killing
pretense, taking flesh with it.  mr. dan carter loud in a different way:  
too much at once.  ari, gentle but furious, always worked hardest to say
he heard my voice, giving me a hand up, even a second-hand.  john, close
but very far.  ... but to stay listening as voices fade, commingle, ...

bataille entered the place where death lives, a new kind of literary
project, at once a community, that we take ourselves for, between the
lines into the textual feeling reeling revealing seductive presence of
impossibly passion.  loving his entries, i take up communication inside
and outside what has gone there too.  picking up strains from nietzsche,
genet, borges.  my words invite my own anger.  how dare i make a list like
that?  betray those i love before imaginary powers, even truth is one
such.

sensation is already unpacked into strings of concepts, before suffering
under an imaginary clamp.  subjectivity, the community of those strings
before they are lost under the great reduction.  which works
better:  digging under tombs to recover strings, or merely sensing and
letting the strings dance?  a beautiful destruction to set freedom back in
the air?

after a time, age itself, maybe its distance, makes friendship out of
dust.  bataille, the beauty of the dust in the library.  his name fading,
swept up from the floor.  books are made to be burnt.

maybe this is all too closed still.  i need a mood to smash it, let it be
devoured by hungry, generous thieves.  

or let it close.  know, though, that it will not always close so.  its
impossible weight feels its need to burst open.  maybe later.

marcus.