The Sunday Tunnel: No Light, No Tunnel
[Continues from here.]
This is where it ends. Where I start yet another life filled to the brim with dreams that, if not frustrated, will get frustrating. So much is true of any tunnel: that if there is no light at the end of it, it is no tunnel (regardless of timeless logic which may always hold but which in time never applies.
“(..) you always lose at solitaire, she said, smiling a rare, mother-made smile: crosswords are never completed, only given up, and card games like these are never won; that’s why I play them.” (ibid., p. 631)
The truth in this book has been ample and like that word it feels amputated as if the truth in this book is a phantom joy, the sensation of excitement felt in what is no longer there. Cut and left wet, moist with tears for what cannot be; a be that stings, a life that stinks.
“But every dark is different. Some darks may be boundless, stratospherical, pure, but I prefer mine circumscribed like a corset, and where, if I had a soul, it would be squoozen, and where, when I’m found, I’ll be identified as the remains of a child, doubled over, waiting to be born.” (ibid., p. 635)
Why write? Why write at all?
Not just for somebody to read, that would be to end it and anything that ends defeats the purpose of starting. No, writing is not just for reading; writing is for reading that engenders writing that – when – read inspires new writing, really totally new writing. Why? To start all over again. Not two movements and one synthesis but four and no reconciliation. The title of the next should be The Ladder. To where? Up. With whom? Alone but all alone as in all together alone. There’s comfort in that, in letting go of the finality and letting go of originality (Scylla and Charybdis?).
“Poets are neither born nor made nor found in a field like the ash of a fallen star. There are no poets, there are only poems. But in my youth I wished to be a poet. Then I might write poems. Beneath a tree. On flyleaves. I would breath them down necks shaped like swans or like similes; I would sing them to empty skies and cause larks. I would wear my hair long, wind ribbons round my throat, lounge in gardens, affect TB, smoke incessantly, drink something green. Yes, how to be a poet, that was the problem.” (ibid, p. 638)
To want to be somebody – let me try to be smart – is the problem: why not be somemind? Man, that’s corny! Indeed, but why not true? Why do we want to be somebody? Because they told us to be somebody. They told us to build personality – ma non troppo – and then convert it into matter such that we matter; after all, the only thing that matters is matter. And this may be corny (as well as are the couple of thousands google hits that it gets when flanked by 2 times “) but it is true of all things spiritual that end somewhere (and therefore begin somewhere because this vice is totally versa) as all endings are material.
There are only poems; poets are co-incidental. They pluck what others grow. I am a poet even if I never write a line that’s more than pure twaddle. And you can’t take this from me, not even by leaving me alone.
“But twiddlers don’t spot twaddle; that’s why they are twiddlers; it’s well known. And how in the worn round world can I, having written twaddle oafter twaddle, have the forewit to correct it? Haven’t my habits worn a trench for me higher than my head? Ah, this dim point of view weakly replies, I borrow my standards from the poets I have read, and that’s how I recognize my twaddle as twaddle, and that’s how I learn to correct it – my twaddle in time and due course resembling twuddle, perhaps, the twuddle of the poets I prefer.” (ibid., p. 640)
Ah, Kohler, again – and again – and again, close but no cigar; steps but no ladder; tunnels but no light. Progress is what is lacking: from twiddle to twaddle to twiddle again and on to more twaddle but the middle twiddle is not one and the same twiddle as the first twiddle – not in quantity and not in quality. The middle twiddle is twuddle and when the first twiddle is twuddle than the middle twiddle is tweddle and so on and on it goes.
[And yes, by the way, as remarkable as ancient twiddle may have been … it gets dated and over time becomes twaddle as all past distant twiddle is doomed to be twaddled as all future distant twaddle would – if seen know – would be seen as best twiddle ever.]
Tones is what creates personality and personality creates tones and in the universe of tones matter doesn’t matter, only we do. Opaque? Sure it is.
“I didn’t understand then (I wasn’t as quick as the slick brown fox) that poetry was the inside of history, was the interior of the text, was the present alive in what had passed, was what sustained itself through every change of tense. if the poet wonders where yesterday’s snows have gone, he is really mourning the melting of the drift he’s standing in, feeling the clod claim his soggy shoes; (..)” (ibid., p. 642)
That’s why I hate people insisting on proper use of tense. They have us build walls between past, present and future (and within the past, within the present and within the future). Progress is a timeless, universal, yes, necessary concept even if we are in time. We in time, our tones are timeless. Nothing falls, nothing rises; there is just continuity.
Flux. Flow. Let’s call it the Fu Flux Flan and join it – better than joining the PdP. Quoting begets misrepresentation.
“because the dark which appears when consciousness clicks off returns all mind to matter (..)” (ibid., p. 644)
Only consciousness doesn’t, click off. Matter turns out mind but once the genie is out of the bottle, there is no returning, no cycles, nothing goes round neither comes around.
Let me finish my twaddle with some of Gass’ twiddle:
“Or shall I, like the rivers rise? Ah. Well. Is rising wise? Revolver like the Führer near an ear. Or lay my mind down down by sorrow’s side.”
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