Clarice Lispector an angel human you have me mute and shivering hot. Longing to write dance in a one two step of consciousness. I, as in soul me, stutters and fizzes into life. Yearning replaced with the instance. A balm remedy with the excitement of yes!
Sweat pours down me as you talk about the bodily knowledge
of word sounds and the endless question of why being replaced by the art of
doing, of churning and leaping and turning inside out on the page. Keep going
deeper into the pace and intention of writing. Writing is claiming something
from time and asking for nothing. There is a partnership at work I don’t know anything
and on the walk here a stream of bile filled my mind that is just as much me. I
am replacing honesty with better honesty. The truth of things is painful and
yet I have to turn to it, lean in and find space for my spirit. To write with a
greater now that has within it blood and life as Clarice says the ‘plasma’. I haven’t
fed from the placenta but here is a sound that is feeding me, her thoughts on
the page. The sound of her words in my skull. Am I trying to emulate a genius,
something more, for she unshackles me and I am inspired. Once again I believe.
Blood liver. Life giver. Host or roses and other such
things. Round it off, round it off. Rounded instinct pivoted by forces unknown.
And full stops come up against a wall. Hear the water flush the dust.
The air is timid but the opposite _ bold. Both around me as enough,
a throbbing embrace.
Vibrating potential. Field of belonging and expectancy.
State of expectance on the air that is also tepid and slow yet pulsing. Oh and
the birds.
Incessant contours of sound stab darts siren in the heat
undulating throbs of a drill brief exchanges of words on the street, like the
flutter of wings, rustle quiet rustle amongst engine surges and clatter.
And there the hiss of a cool drink being opened, punctuation
I relate to, release. I am forever looking for release, a dive into the eternity
of the moment, a lapse in pressure from the endless boiling point of my frantic
mind. A mind which swerves from one thought to another trying to grab something
with marrow and suck on it. Another thought muscles in, or is it instinct telling
me such marrow will not be found in thought. The rich juice of life lies
beyond. This is a moment to stretch it, to smile with this illusive essence, to
laugh, to write it on a page, bottle top and laughing I am learning slowly,
learning a nonsense that is freedom laced with meaning or do I mimic, is that
my most taut muscle, lacking lyrical genius and without the richest depository of
vocabulary. I litter this page with speed and doubt, give way to moments of
roundness, the loop completed and darting into synergy like magnetism, those
brief moments of perfect fit. I am talking about tessellation and this really
is a response and half cooked notion, having read the work of a mind in flight.
I am inspired amongst the mud of my limitation, making sandcastles without the
sand. Yet my back is not to the sea at least. I am facing front on, drinking in
the view. In the distance I constantly see and feel the tug of the tide as the
water of life pulls near, draws away, rushes back. Intimacy in constant appraisal
and my net glistening over-head, empty again, though through faith once again filled.
