Daphne Alla Gory, a tree voiced invention
(in memory of patrick w., my nephew, may he win in other places)
…
Rebirth is a dictum of the shallow waves.
We mourn the Mudern but we do not mourn it as the splendor of a lost antiquity. We cannot aim to quarrel with a movement, a past eruption, sliding downward in two directions. We smile at it, a past affair, its amorality contributing to the intensity of some orgasms, some words, some silence as we receed to the established scene. After the initial euphoria of resettling into conformity, the sadness hits us one day, we start to mourn the lost vitality as the old annoyances built up to the old cold facts, the all too familiar reasons why we started the affair in the first place.
The shallow waves dictate some things to resurface.
The shallow waves, they do not rise too fast, my every neighbour knows how to step up or down, they do not swallow her. They merely touch the ankles of her children, make them cry out with joy because the rhythms ringing out from it in global tunes are made of what they see, they recognise in them what lies hidden in a possible smile of the parent. Sometimes the possibility reflects the real, a rupture of invention, because the void between two moments prefigures the absence of eruption. They both burst out in laughter then to cover up the presence of the one inside the other.
Outward, inward. Extraction, recession. One, zero.
The Mooredarn mourn us but they do not mourn us with the splendor of authority. They seek us out and gain our bones, they pulverise them in full view of the audience (omnes gentes plaudite manibus), they quarrel with the slippery remains of our organs while our ghosts pervade their machines, a trembling futuristic façade that engages the audience with the bathos of a projected real behind it, a double absence, its immorality contributing to their eagerness to grasp, to send out ads promising a promise of a new promise, & some turmoil does resound as we receed from the established scene. After the initial euphoria of gaining control, a tidal wave hits the premises of the building, some towers implode in a rush backwards towards the crack in the bubble.
It is said that every birth causes universal waves to run about the things that make the universe.
The Mored of Urnings mourn us because we do not impregnate the empty shells held up to us with our absence.
Children exceed themselves to access the continous presence of the smile.
The smile, wherever it comes out, is rather wry, there is a thing, a sting of disbelief, a view of dark mud in the dark part of the eye, a memory turning into something that matters but is left unsaid because another memory supersedes it before the parent speaks. The parent hastens to conform the patterns to a shallow wave.
It is said that in the absence of a climax the universe speaks for itself.
The parent, however, cannot hide behind a promised key forever.
She will, she must.
Monkey.
Taciturn.
Yern.
…
[nuggets of the cardinal engaged towards conception] …
Rebirth is a dictum of the shallow waves.
…
(garbaged from & on the empyre discussion this month),
