how about giving me one of those chesterfields. bitch.
graham spoke to me today.
a letter begins it and soon it is a collection of words. it was a sentance, but now it is more. it has grown: it has established itself. it is a collection of letters and words and sentances. in that order. it is a paragraph. it is nothing more.
it would take three ordinary people to speak as graham speaks:
1)a very old man whose speech is a structured death rattle. a working of lips over a possibly final exhalation.
2)a girl singing along who is completely deaf .
3)an emergency broadcast tone.
it is seated in the indian style, or it leans forward in the defecatory fashion. it has a latte, or it is at home alone and has no latte. it is so much more than a paragraph. it is a virus. it injects itself into its host and replicates. if it was words, it is now sounds. if it was a sentance, it is now an idea. if it was a paragraph, it is now communication. it is Reading. it is nothing more.
had his words been an actual emergency, i would have recieved instruction.
the sequencing of events is the best way to begin:
first, i am reading. it is a book about responsibility accented by clever word usage. it is a metaphor for growing up disguised as a boat trip. it is an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in the exploits of talking animals. thats not all. it is so much more, and that is how it always begins.
then, while reading, i notice poor syntactical arrangements. facile metaphor leads to sloppy allegory. literary devices begin to operate as crutches. this always happens, and that is not all.
soon, paragraphs bleed together haphazardly and sentances lose cohesion.
soon, words are so many letters arranged nonsensically.
soon, as i stare at them, the words disappear, supplanted by the white of the page. the white soon supplanted by a not-white nothing.
this is horrible, and this is not all.
it becomes obvious that to look at a thing is to disintegrate it.
soon, there are shelves filled with nothing where all my books were. my clothes are gone. my belly is full of the nothing i have made of food, and i am kept warm by nothing. all that is left of my home is nothing. with time i can stare at a person and erase him or her. its easier the less i have invested in the person. if i havent given them anything, they are sugar in warm water. these things happen and then my eyelids are gone. nothing keeps me from seeing everything. i take it all in. it all goes away. my self is long gone.
this is horrible, but if i look at it long enough it is not horrible. it becomes nothing. it is outer space: cold and no closer to the stars than the ground below my feet that disintegrates as i think about it.
this is a dream. this is a nightmare. but soon, like everything else under scrutiny it is nothing.
it is nothing anymore.
and graham says nothing about anything. with his Furious voice.
a letter begins it and soon it is a collection of words. it was a sentance, but now it is more. it has grown: it has established itself. it is a collection of letters and words and sentances. in that order. it is a paragraph. it is nothing more.
it would take three ordinary people to speak as graham speaks:
1)a very old man whose speech is a structured death rattle. a working of lips over a possibly final exhalation.
2)a girl singing along who is completely deaf .
3)an emergency broadcast tone.
it is seated in the indian style, or it leans forward in the defecatory fashion. it has a latte, or it is at home alone and has no latte. it is so much more than a paragraph. it is a virus. it injects itself into its host and replicates. if it was words, it is now sounds. if it was a sentance, it is now an idea. if it was a paragraph, it is now communication. it is Reading. it is nothing more.
had his words been an actual emergency, i would have recieved instruction.
the sequencing of events is the best way to begin:
first, i am reading. it is a book about responsibility accented by clever word usage. it is a metaphor for growing up disguised as a boat trip. it is an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in the exploits of talking animals. thats not all. it is so much more, and that is how it always begins.
then, while reading, i notice poor syntactical arrangements. facile metaphor leads to sloppy allegory. literary devices begin to operate as crutches. this always happens, and that is not all.
soon, paragraphs bleed together haphazardly and sentances lose cohesion.
soon, words are so many letters arranged nonsensically.
soon, as i stare at them, the words disappear, supplanted by the white of the page. the white soon supplanted by a not-white nothing.
this is horrible, and this is not all.
it becomes obvious that to look at a thing is to disintegrate it.
soon, there are shelves filled with nothing where all my books were. my clothes are gone. my belly is full of the nothing i have made of food, and i am kept warm by nothing. all that is left of my home is nothing. with time i can stare at a person and erase him or her. its easier the less i have invested in the person. if i havent given them anything, they are sugar in warm water. these things happen and then my eyelids are gone. nothing keeps me from seeing everything. i take it all in. it all goes away. my self is long gone.
this is horrible, but if i look at it long enough it is not horrible. it becomes nothing. it is outer space: cold and no closer to the stars than the ground below my feet that disintegrates as i think about it.
this is a dream. this is a nightmare. but soon, like everything else under scrutiny it is nothing.
it is nothing anymore.
and graham says nothing about anything. with his Furious voice.