So…here…to write…and being surrounded by books, overwhelmed by books, let’s be frank, by words, overwhelmed by words, tumbling madly, there is no way of processing, better keep the books locked in the cellar where they can do least harm. Is that true? Is it possible? Won’t they leak into the damp walls, crumbling bricks, stone, concrete, mortar, rotting wood; leach into the hidden waterways. The mysterious ways of water.
To carry a word. In the fluid of my mind – a sort of cellar, I guess. One word should be enough, enough for a lifetime. If one is given the right word. The to and fro of barter. You give me this word and I give you…? But surely not, surely the word must be freely given, left somewhere ‘hidden in plain view’ where I might or might not discover it. Turning over a stone, wedged awkwardly in the black earth. Rich humus in which new life emerges, new life awaits discovery. A new word or simply an old one waiting for its time of rediscovery.
Words are what we are born from. Stone water words potential of thought, blinding vision – after which – into the darkness.
Discovered in Geoff Dyer’s Zona (page 79) where he quotes from Kafka’s Zurau Aphorisms:
‘Beyond a certain point there’s no return.
That’s the point that must be reached.’
Choice is impossible there is no going back; I can’t go back even if I wanted to. What does it look like out there?