online: 28 january 2004

27 january 2004 that'z it

20:57 this evening I realise that I cannot know the course or meaning of these words before they are written, resound in mind, appear on page... not if they are to be worth writing, or reading... And this has something to do with the incompleteness of oneself, the empty unformed back of the head whereas the heads of others are completed skulls and brains but I feel my own head as 'me' only at the front around my eyes and nostrils, mouth, ears. The back is nothingness, a calm or raging torrent of things unsaid, unheard, unseen... Yes the back of my skull comes alive (but becomes enclosed) if I bang it or if stroked by someone, even by my own hand... where did I read of something like this some days ago?... I can't remember for the moment...

...and where is this going, what means it? (and why that archaic word order?)

no, it's better to continue than to ask questions. change gear.

There is no self, no separate body or person, only the illusion of divided reality, but I cannot prove it, only glimpse, at moments, that all things are parts of a unity, and oneself is that which enables one to be, to see, to think, or drink - alive to the wall, the box, the sky, the pinprick... the cup of tea that revives...

...this is not poem, nor prose, nor fact, nor even writing - it's just what's happening as I think, write words that appear from the necessary incompleteness of being alive. That's it! the empty head, generating cliches. But more. The reality is greater.

this evening I saw a flame, 3 or 4 metres high and 2 or 3 wide, moving irregularly this way that way in strong wind, after someone set fire to a double mattress in a back garden. Black smoke, many sparks, it looked to me dangerous, I suppose invigorating to some. It could have spread and I was ready to call the fire service... what's happened to my head? the invisible self.

(these're not thortz they're eventz)

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