The Bad Days Will End.Contact.

Citta Violenta.

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Toward a radical middle

a time for fear
Wednesday, July 23, 2003  
A reconstruction of Joseph 'Elephant Man' Merrick without his genetic deformities reveals a long, sensitive, handsome face >>> States that support terror will be held accountable. Bombs, more bombs. Held tight to each other after 9/11, bed covered in papers. Try to find facts. Try to hunt them down. Events bind us. And then we find events tear us apart. Keep finding facts. Or reasons even. Pin something down. Clarify anything. Please. In the heat of the moment. In the scorching heat of dialogue. Time runs backwards, a star unexplodes. Numb is the word. I am sorry. I am so sorry. Mortar barrage tears Monrovia apart. Air livid with bullets. Metal wavers. Speed elongates the circumference. Silver darts melt in the heart. There is no "time" here. Time is at an end. There are no "events". There is just: air, crazy with bullets. No thoughts. No thought. No classical thought. Reflexes: survival, envy, anger. Pervasive or condensed at the centre: fear. Many layers of fear, many aspects, many types. All level out in instinct. In drives. Alongside desire. Feed into desire. And vice versa. I am lost now >>> from the Horn of Africa and the Red sea war ships sail to the Mediterranean. In Senegal and Sierra Leone military personnel, helicopters and transport planes wait. They wait for the word: then this is classical thought. Helicopters swarm like gigantic wasps. Get to the Embassy. Protect the Embassy. Bodies left in piles outside the compound. Blood dries out in sun. Life pumps away fast and daylight congeals it almost as fast. Skin rots. Insects gather. Life is really quite cheap. It is reckoned as nothing. >>> They rip Casablanca apart with bombs. Screen dream disintegrates. This quiet glory. It has gone. Rip apart romance with ideology. There is no ideology. These things are so subtle. Things just happen. There are reasons, sometimes there are causes. But no ideology. Do not reduce my emotions to tropes. Keep them inside broken scenes. Fast moments. Moments you wouldn't even see. They are mine. A fake bar. A real war. A bad accent. Eyes, lips, teeth. Glare of studio light. I will interpret my life in relation to such basics. These cyclonic suggestions. This heavy, heady sleep. These dreams. I will always attempt to live them out. Live with the intensity of dream. Whatever the consequences. Even if the consequences humble me. Even if it breaks me. Or I forget these principles. Or I retreat. Or I get lazy. Or I get bored. Or I'm intimidated. I won't regret anything: I promise that to you, to myself >>> All this magic makes my brain ache. I have a dream and in this dream I drive a blue 2CV but it doesn't belong to me. I drive around France, in the countryside, around hairpin bends, beneath high walls, past houses and mountain villages, then behind the Tour de France, and then along the coast, past Monte Carlo and Monaco and the bright, blue sea. I stay at St Tropez. I stare at expensive white yachts, large, large yachts, built as ocean cruising palaces for Saudi princes, American tycoons, European film stars. This is a sad trip. I paddle into the sea at Cannes, cool off my feet. I think about swimming, but sharks worry me. And then I swim. But the water is too warm, and I think I see a shark. In the 2CV I drive back into the mountains as the evening approaches and the sky darkens. There is a storm. I stop above a valley. A large valley, dotted with villages. Small lights twinkle on in all the little houses. The valley is drenched with rain. The storm is contained in a pocket of dark cloud. All around the sky is violet hues, translucent, clear, studded with stars. The storm is condensed, but loud and quite fierce. It passes with much drama and beauty. Now I feel soothed a little, and can carry on >>> Pyongyang fizzles with dimplomatic tension. Will this really be a frontier for war? They have air raid drills daily. Quiet and polite civilians shuffle down into subways. Who knows if this is even a drill? Thinking about Threads. Watched nights before 9/11. Scratchy BBC drama: the film hazy with age. Gritty. Every angle and every subplot grafted for maximum impact. For queasy perspective. Why am I even thinking about this? I can't eat. Tonight, I can't eat. I can't sleep. No, I can't stop sleeping. It's narcolepsy. I go to the bathroom one time and I get so sleepy that I curl up on the floor and sleep for three hours. But I'm still sleepy. Life forces you to degrade youself. To slip up, to make mistakes. So much pain passed around. It's pathetic. We cannot see the consequences. Cannot see the end of the line. Lose sight of our power. We destroy things with such ease. We discard beauty without intention. That's the worst thing. We don't think properly. A blank compulsive drive: tonight, no other impulse. Write until the mind is dumb >>> Don't say it to anybody, love is so delicate, it's mortally fragile. A passerby could pulverize that god made of glass. But if you don't say (it) to anybody, this departure, this madness, you're at the mercy of the god. Nobody will come to your rescue the day the god takes on the aura of devil >>> Words that you have said cling to eternity. They are somewhere, always. You carved them onto the sky together. They remain. One day you will come upon them again. It will overwhelm you. The fact that you could say these things. That you really, fiercely, meant them. You cannot touch that. Whatever happens. These words are untouchable. You dared so much! Risked so much on hope, faith, feeling. To live on nerves once more! Together on a highwire with no safety net >>> Crisis management. Collapse of apartment blocks in Spanish sun in Marbella. Bricks melt. The grass is scorched dry. High rise blocks in Malaga. Bullet holes in concrete. Water streaming down walls. I'm at a loss for an explanation. I cannot clarify a thing. The ordeal has begun.

12:24 AM

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