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Home for the heteronomous

My wife dislikes … Kind of implies there’s more … Specifically more to do … Needing to guess what’s that … About.

I have been reading Juan Goytisolo’s Don Juliàn. He looks ferocious. The book is. It’s hard not to think this … Open, I guess. Open to the front, closed to the back. I don’t know. Just guessing. Writing words. I’ll need to get back at it. Find the thread. Use the needle. Knit a sock.

Gass brought me to Goytisolo. After Don Quixote it is the first book in Spanish I want to finish. It’s a break from Finnegans Wake as well. Halfway through it, it kind of lost me (after the Russian revolution if I recall well). I’ll get back to it. I consider it a …

altivo, gerifalte Poeta, ayùdame : a luz màs cierta, sùbeme : la patria no es la tierra, el hombre no es el àrbol : ayùdame a vivir sin suelo y sin raìces : móvil, móvil : sin otro alimento y sustancia que tu rica palabra : palabra sin historia, orden verbal autónomo, engañoso delirio : poema

Juan Goytisolo, Don Juliàn, p. 118

This bloody keyboard doesn’t even let me put the accents in the right direction! Never mind. Let us stay a bit positive in this world which is fixed to its past and therefore closed to its future.

The thing is: I love my wife. She keeps an open mind. It’s just that she associates … with arrogance. She’s right (as she usually is). People who love literature tend to be people who love themselves & want to have it in a certain way. Engineers of words. Designers of make believe. Boem Paukeslag! They have the answers and the … is just a fill-in-the-blanks.

Fuck ’em.

Never destroy the wonder which creeps up at us in small stochastic increments, silently (slowly) pulling us forth in what has to be the right direction for the simple reason it is the direction. Kick ’em in the balls who force their (given?) wisdom on others providing guidance, bread crumbs to follow to their success. Burn (if burning make sense) the books of tell-tale success (it doesn’t).

The thing is : I hate as she hates. We love most everything else. We love the unwritten … that keeps things open, that knows not where it is going except that the going is ongoing. The word, though, is becoming the servant of those who know where not to go. The slave of those that want to stay put. Change things back to where they were. In a split second … they’d split anything for achieving that. The word is used to distrust us where trust is what makes us mobile, coasting on a carpet of words.

Words have gotten a bad name. Words and words and words. Words have been accused by those who sway words around like swords. A pity that no one has pity anymore. Words have been turned against words and with success. Success is their middle name. Merit their first. Ruthlessness completes their identification. If traitors there are (there aren’t), then hang ’em. Hang ’em who think they have the answers and educate us by leaving … Hang ’em with their smug faces knowing the answer and not giving it because they want to see us struggle to come up with what they want to hear.

Designers of engines. Engineers of design. Change as long as it’s back to a rule of nature which never was … but serves them right because they’re on top standing on the shoulders of others, feeling like giants. Deaf to every word except that of hardened stoics who could afford their stoicism in their bed of aristocracy.


August 2, 2015 - Posted by | books, language, Sunday Stories, syntax | , ,

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