Vertigo

Things continued on for a week when he left, flew away, vanished from sight.  Just the remnant of him was left. he was like a ghost in the machine, the only proof of his continued existence was the beeping arrival of a text.  he's become an electrical pulse, an static image in an computerized interface, an array of letters.  he might as well be beyond the dark lands.  perhaps to feel his presence from the void like the brush of a breath across one's cheek.

but I relished the freedom, the un-mediated control of this room, the non-negotiated space where I could order my world alone - a star there, a rainbow there, an oil lamp, an ice giant... such creative quiet.  such a paradise of peace.  how i could take this time to fold a thousand cranes.  i skipped and they flew around me in complex formation.

and then they fell one by one, dropping, until they were in piles on the floor. the space began to close.  dark freedom.  I paced this prison cell like a derelict, like a restless beast in the night, a panther in the shadows ... only light reflected in its yellow eyes... reflecting the light of the moon.  i'm trapped in my perfect array of space... and it has become abject to me - a horror in pastels.  in the gentle breeze i am mocked by my paper constructions.

my desire makes me teeter on the edge of the abyss.  how i would dive into your memory.  let go of my careful architecture and plummet into the debris of your flood tides.  collide into my solar system like a voracious black hole... shatter the dimensions of this clean white page with the charcoal rubbings of your wild trees... i have swept this space clear and this breath has flown.  my breath.

To write a text; to be a text

The world is swirling vortex, atheist logos on buses merging with 17th century french philosophers wagering on God, volcanoes changing 21st century transport in the Northern Hemisphere, the small world got bigger - cut off in a way not felt for a century, and amidst it all my brain pawing at the idea of 'being text' and the notion of certainty.  Where is the anchor in the world?  It feels off-axis.  Nothing, not even identity is static, dependable, specific, singular.  Derrida becomes more and more a dark omen - he is right, but gives no clues as to how to manage a constantly morphing universe - if only he wasn't so obtuse.

The line between the reality of the author and the reality of the text - both become beings - a sacred line is crossed.  A transgression... Shulamith, the pinnochio of her author, has more sure being than her maker ...