Earlier Pieces
From the running journal I have never kept: a link of passes -- here too a search for the word to describe, to economize, those swells of associations . . . "pass." This, for now, is the calling. Swooping, scanning and veering, scaling -- not even links. Thinking of those moments of interior-exteriority, the strange tiny pleasure of being hidden in my emotions, with them, scandalously minute. Parasite of experience. Passing by windows and the various kinds of evidence of goings on, muted, planed, shielded, suppressed. Enjoying moments of solitude in relation to those, precisely, who are not there. (Past of my orphantasm.) This is the kind of abstraction I perform. Never specific because the point is always passing, being passed. Wander/wonder. Epiphany, what it is supposed to be, is given over to these rushes, these quietings, inferernces. And always under the implicit order of insufficiency. What would have been consumed, burned in a flash, and missed. Do I miss the point? Or do I burn it up? Obliterate with the silent speed of distraction. Quickly, now, the links which invest each other with the meaning, the swells of it, can give over to a mad dash to capture them in their dispersal, or they can distribute themselves as flats, screens, blinding enunciations, like an array of tautologies resolutely ignoring each other in their being placed together on the stage, in the frame. Thinking disorder. What will be pursued to describe this very thing will be right there to express, blotted out by a distrust, an infidelity, a failure to support myself.
---
All content this page unless otherwise noted © 2019 Greg Macon
