PAGE
UNDER CONSTRUCTION.
They talk
amongst themselves. What they say does not concern us. Can only distract us
from what is essential. The safest stratagem is ignorance. If you don’t speak
the language there’s no way you can be co-opted into the conversation. Books I have
read, and the state of the world today. As if the stagehands, dressed in black,
cannot clearly be seen swapping one set for another.
What the brain tries to distract
us with, jungle, concealing the white stones beneath. Toucan, parrot, howling
ape. What the brain is, Shahrazad, teller of tales, which grow vines and
tendrils and bloom in an air, humid, and freighted with perfume.
“She
had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied
philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and
polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred."
We don’t want to
talk or listen to stories. There seems to be a solid structure beneath the prodigious
forest, a stepped pyramid, the summit of which promises to shatter the green
canopy. There are books within the temple complex. We have looked on these
books in dreams, even turned the heavy parchment pages, and woken with a new
idea, secreted in the chest.
The dream makes
us its Manchurian Candidate. We mistake its designs for randomness. Its actions
for our own whimsy. We trace out its circuit and activate its energies. There
are places you can visit without standing up. If you come back we can talk
about it together.
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