Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Dublin Days in Shades

Windows shut, chewed air musty by now as I seek extractions within these walls. A rectangle this room, sized three of me horizontally and just me and my double vertically. Pea green walls, brown suede-fake sheen cover on bed that takes up 3/4 of my would-be double and I, enjoined wooden wardrobe-desk combo on left standing tall, all the way up to the ceiling, and I remember I almost forgot to look up, and then I know why. No bulb above, light is right next to me on the little night table, wooden too. Good for knocking on fortune, if one was so inclined.

On the floor, the mushed cereal flakes stuck to blue bowl and a mug, the only one I use. It will be a while before I take it down. By a while I mean a few hours, probably by the time I decide to open the window. Wait. I think I'll do that now. No - I've changed my mind. At this point, I begin to be aware that someone might read this, and I begin to be self-conscious about what I describe. Surely, no one wants to hear of my walls least of all my predilection for shuffing the curtains, blocking off the hope-glassed morning, purposefully, to see how it makes me feel.

And I consult myself to what extent an awareness of a you, an amorphous greedy-eyed you, egging me on to know what's coming from a performance plays a part. Because any act of expression is a performance, surely. And in thinking this, I feel I must open the window, just a crack, allowing a square of light in. And what do I see, high gray with dainty clouds, well-lit and sliding remarkably fast accross my plane of vision. Have you noticed how fast the sky changes, how rushed those clouds really are? They're going places.

Meanwhile I'm standing still. The only book I've read of Joyce's is Dubliners, which in some ways feels remarkably similar to Clarice Lispector's Near the Wild Heart, one of my favorite exercises in liquid self-submergence. They both wrote in their early twenties, chaptering it in phases of being, with its surfaces using the stages of life. Even though the beings in themselves don't really change all that much, only circumstances tumble them towards different notings. What is really striking about their works, and I'm going to include Woolf here too, is in the clearing of the fields themselves, tweezing, mercillesly, the threads within. Following it. Cornering it even. To ultimately swallow it.

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