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January 11, 2007 / zanzi

i’m off

one room to another. because the longer hand on the clock is upright. hold yourself straight. be a good citizen.

i wonder why i do it sometimes. mostly i do it without wondering. because it does anything but help. i used to wonder wonsaponatime. even considered stopping. it’s inertial to gather no moss.

time beckons, as usual. a little sumpfin at eleven has changed into a completely different ball game. i wonder if i will get morose.

another day, an empty half an hour. bring on sheherazade. how very apt. silence the silence. wrap it up in fitzgerald’s tender night, clothe it in chocochips milano-style, do anything but listen. type, that the rhythm stop all else.

to write, one has to read. but reading has to stop before one can write. to start saying sumpfin, one has to be perspectival. yet the only things worth saying leap outside of A perspective. life is at best oxymoronic.

what’s with places? they tie you up and are your release, they strangle you, wring your neck and bring a choking to your throat, they make your eyes wet with the weeping and dry with the thirst for a familiar sight.

“like a musk deer that is intoxicated with its own perfume, we seek what we do not get and get what we do not seek”

or like aurobindo, we canst not choose. not even the choice of capitalism, because marx makes them see red.

is there a fine line between being profound and making sense? between being superentertaining, ‘faffing’ and ‘putting pseud’? is stream of consciousness just a non-verse form of nonsense poetry?

but the clock is straightening up again. of course, it’s a digital one now; being the chaps douglas adams talks about, we still do think they’re a very good idea.  and we write not because there’s no towel to take us someplace else, but for the best of reasons – since we must.

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