a nocens somnium

- it’s starting again, he said.

She said nothing for a long moment, then walked away. She stopped in the doorway and turned back looking at him. Her mouth made a small clicking sound that let him know that inside her rigid body there was motion - it was her tongue breaking free from the roof of her mouth, she was about to say something.

- I want you to be as miserable as I am.

It had started again.

French Lesson - m/s 3. Indefinant, Negative pronouns, or, Lot's wife.

Negative pronouns negate, refuse, or cast doubt
on the existence of the noun that they replace.

It’s an awful position to be in, he said,
the constant negating.
-It’s all people see in you.
It’s the unending plombe gray cloud that accompanies you - toujours les plaints.

Personne ne me connaît ici.
No one knows me here.
(PERSONNE/nobody is the subject)

Je ne vends aucun des livres.
I'm not selling any of the books.
(AUCUN/none is the direct object)

Elle ne pense à rien.
She's not thinking about anything.
(RIEN/nothing is the indirect object)

It comes from everywhere. It wears humans down, the lead filled skies, always heavy and threatening.

But whatever-
If you can’t change the weather, you just have to get out of it.
It even seems senseless to say fuck you. Negative pronouns like, she, must already know what people think.

But still - nobody, none, nothing...
For a noun, even a pronoun like, him,
it makes a dis-engaging atmo-sphere.

Selah - ms/2

The rain had been constant. They were both hurrying to finish clearing the field.
-They are reeking havoc.
-Yes, yes that’s true, but look at them.
He cocked his head upwards, it shook slightly.
- Look what we can do.
In the distance, like four spinning points on a compass, a group of jets traced a great circle 2000 feet above the ground. In the distance they were pure grace, and their sound was simply power.

Henri glanced down at his boots, they were caked with mud. He shifted his regard, Paul’s were worse. As he looked back up, each point of the compass spun out of the circle taking a straight line. One would be over them in the time it took to bend back down into their work.
- we’ve got to hurry

High in the sky, a finger exerted an infinitesimal force. The roar of the jets rendered each screaming round silent as it sped earthward at 3500 miles per hour. Each unknowing, on it’s own individual trajectory.

Paul bent down. Henri paused, raising his hands as the plane sped over them. He could see the helmeted pilot turn his head briefly, and he was gone. Henri quickly turned and stooped back down to work. He saw Paul's boots were still muddy. It was a moment later Henri realized his fate. The rest of Paul was strewn about the field.

smack - ms/1

He turned to her.
“is it true”.
She looked at him.
The long silence that ensued ended with the small cracking sound of tension breaking. The saliva sticking to the roof of her mouth broke free from her tongue with a sharp click that signaled the end of his ignorance. She began to form a word. He had a sharp twisting sensation in his belly.

Fields and Streets

The vacation is over. It was a good time.
It started over there and ended here.

I drove ten thousand miles on chicago city streets, now I ready to attack ten thousand souche on the Larzac rise. In the meantime, among other delicious things, I’ve eaten carne asada and fois gras both made with grandmother hands. I’ve woken on snowy days and hot mornings. I haven’t been out of sight of friends or family or other loving beings for 16 straight days. The good times are wearing me down.

I like waking up to find my dream has finally changed, consequently I’m happy to be going back into the vines. I’ve forgotten, or at least misplaced for the moment, the fact that the vines are brutal. Like a party that doesn’t end, they wear you down until you are broken with fatigue, and longing the finish. But that’s at the end of the dream, and tomorrow is just the beginning.

Early morning sunrises with the view to the sea on the rise to Larzac Plateau. The sky and it’s weather in myriad flowing patterns. The order and potential of freshly tailled fields. Lunchtime naps in a car warmed with the sun. Yes it’s all good in the beginning.

Happy new year.

Before the Fire

We are all invested with hope. It’s what keeps us holding onto the
side of the buoy, as we float among the dead bodies and wreckage of our just sunken ship. It’s what allows us to stay silent, stay hidden and unmoving under a stack of human corpses as the killers heap more atop us.

We go on no matter what the disasters swirling among us, we are bred with the instinct to just get through, to just keep going. But to what end. Is it more that just about continued living. What is it we go on for. What is this wish that living entails, that makes us want more, even while in the midst of suffering.

We are lucky. For the most part we haven’t had to live in times of famine, war or pestilence, or at least we are able to turn our back toward it when it becomes too much. Our hope consequently has become much grander than just to get through. It is lucky to have a chance to conceive dreams that are not perpetually clouded with nightmare. But unfettered dreams can haunt too.

They can leave a desire for content without limit. A taste for the sensation of the right place at the right time with the want of nothing more. The dream of a place were the desire for more never comes. Those types of dreams can leave a longing that inhabits every waking moment. It is a longing for the complete filling of desire that is not bounded with time.

It’s what keeps us moving on, this constant search for that moment of content without limit. For that waking time when we inhabit what we had hitherto only glimpsed in a dream. It’s a schizophrenic view of the self from outside, without any of the separation anxiety. The viewer and the viewed are one, and distinct too. It’s like watching the watcher, or inhabiting the mirror. It’s what we do so easily in dreams, but when that flashes in waking life, it can leave gaping chasms in our rock solid world.

-----------------------------------

The window panes are literally flowing. The ancient rock houses are
all huddled together against the sunny side of the coline. Its warm outside but inside a slow fire burns. It counters the cold that lingers within the rock walls. It adds a slow sound and a warm light that repeats wordlessly ‘hearth’. Smoke rises from the chimney and scatters, sending out the scent of another time.

In front of the fire, are a man and a woman. They sit, facing each other, in straight backed chairs. They both lean in slightly, one towards the other. They are holding hands and on occasion looking into the other, the fire, themselves. They say very little, what sounds they do make are absorbed by a denser, wordless utterance which is emanating between them. They are enshrouded in the shifting light of the fire. They sit like that - silent and content. She is blissful and beautiful and he has forgotten that no story ends happily ever after.

Their love flourishes amidst the end that rages around them, she flowers in its energy, he amazes at its calm. Each in their fashion knows the end will come, yet in that perfect moment in front of the fire, they just kept going and pretended not to notice. They know that sorrow will come, but not today.

Cloudy in the morning, raining in the afternoon.

Letter to a Blank Page.

You are so zen. Haughty white and mighty.
You scare me with your blank stare.
So serene, so perfect just as you are
so full of potential.
Perhaps it’s that which makes me want to soil you.

Just to think of it, gets me in a mood.

Potential realized is
never perfection.
just realization.

That’s the beauty of it.

Just you, and me.
Some alone time.
We’ll go to the end,
get dirty and soiled, all marked up.

It’s like your begging for it, sitting there stainless and white. The way you call me, I know you want it. The only question left now is - how. It’s hard to believe something so pretty could support something so pedestrian. Then again you take all comers. Everyone says your so easy.

So come on, let’s take a whirl, waste some potential with me too. It’s what your all about. Let me mark you, fill you up. It’s what lovers do on rainy days. In a word it’s called gaspillage. But let’s do it anyway - come together and spill over each other. Potential. Action. Who cares if it finishes a mess.

Just to mark your unblemished face, and unfaltering ear, with my rainy days and wandering thoughts. Together we’ll make nothing and call it a good day. Make nothing, but do it together. In the end it doesn’t matter. Even the lucky finish as so much pulp.

I'll save you from your nothingness, and you'll save me from nothing. For a moment though I can remember and forget together. We'll do it together. Condense entire rainstorms in a single line. Oh sweet water from heaven making sound like breezes through brittle leaves of autumn.

Across the world we'll make rain falling. Just outside the door.
We’ll do that and be

silent too.

But not to, like the pure white bliss of zen it can seem a bit too much.

The shop window penetrated.
The bride stripped bare.
It won't matter.
You see - gaspillage - it can be a word that fills too.
Creative acts, rain falling.

Come with me you pretty blank bitch.