Sunday, October 30, 2016

Still reading Dorothea Tanning

In the house there is a pallid silence. I have my cup of warm coffee in the blue cup. It sits patiently waiting for me to leave words and drink it.  Outside a grey sky like a donkey's tail swishing back and forth this dingy cloth wrapped up in bones of clouds.  Since the book I am reading is very complex I have to take frequent steps away from that cathedral and approach less intricate designs which also fry my brain.

I have devised ways to deal with a brain that won't work. I will humour it and tell it that this is such a small bit of work. You can do it. Then when it resists and wishes to go for a nap, I tell it that it must do something, read a bit of the snaking prose, figure out a small part of the map and get the code in small pieces of reading.  Sometimes this works.

Sometimes I just sit here feeling that the book is too big, too smart for my brain and will gallop off into the forest like a moose, clumsily and lose itself so as to remind me that the writer of the book is in his own troubles.  The spikes of the branches of the trees outside my writing room post their prickles into my consciousness and I put the book on my lap like a sacred text that is to be deciphered after much struggle. Soon I will watch the seagull that will open its own book of white and grey feathers to sing some sort of complaint about the garbage printed in the community bin.

The hard print hurts my eyes and the meaning of the sentences snags on the poky parts of the story. I wonder to myself how the writer figured out the oracle of the painter and how he dedicated his life to publishing this work that is about the size of a volume of an encyclopaedia set. Some of us must have ways out of avoiding work.

Last night I could not sleep and so I read another book and felt that perhaps the minds of writers are variably complex because that book at night was easier to contemplate, like crackers and cheese when I have a small hunger.  Right now I am tackling a Christmas turkey and full fixings in this book.

One day there will be a leap. I  know it. I will flounder no more in the ocean of sky and print.  I will dog the writer of the book and snip out all the areas where he peed and marked his territory. I will stumble through the darkness with that map in my head.
But right now I am not the dog, I have no landmarks and I am lost.
Best I go into the maze yet again. 

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