“What, do you imagine that I would take so much trouble and so much pleasure in writing, do you think that I would keep so persistently to my task, if I were not preparing - with a rather shaky hand - a labyrinth into which I can venture, in which I can move my discourse, opening up underground passages, forcing it to go far from itself, finding overhangs that reduce and deform its itinerary, in which I can lose myself and appear at last to eyes that I will never have to meet again.
I am no doubt not the only one who writes in order to have no face. Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order. At least spare us their morality when we write.” –Michel Foucault

Jul 31, 2014

You Forgot to Answer

It's better that you don't answer; I will witness you as loved, religiously, with passion pure as blue flame. I am sitting by your bedside reading your dream from a book written by a wild man in the woods, birds in his hair, haunted by absent perfume. “When I remember what to say," the book begins, "you will turn and return to your senses, turn to find me standing in your shadow, chanting your true name like a ring around your finger. At a depth as rich as dark chocolate, a blind fish-mouth opens and a blood-curdling silence fills in the "why" to make all that "what", "when" and "how" fit together as a vision you are not having but deeply, blindly are. I am leaving. the closing of the door is one more tooth falling out of the head you dream with, out of the comb you pull through your hair, out of the night that, once you shut a final door, goes on forever."

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