Ch'ien / Ch'ien

I found myself back within myself and it is of the utmost importance not to stagnate; but to let flow the green substance which pours from the tips of my fingers, through the sides of the nails, to the pale sheets lacking sunlight. N'even have I remained on the hemp-yarn hammock; I ran down from the cabin; on my way down I burst open the bridge — and Simone the cat looked back at me horrified from her spot on top of the panel's screens and buttons — I proceeded out onto the balcony, the morning's cold dry air breathing on my face; and I proceeded down onto the deck: and down into the saloon. The saloon is where I want to be: in conversation (literature).

But they're all sleeping, because that had I ordered — I had infested their rooms with somniferous perfumes — and it past the time to wake them all up. I announce new orders to the creatures: it's their job. I sit on the table with a bowl full of excessively garlicky rice and a jug of rice milk. What a formidable banquet..., and I go on thinking about what I had just read about piracy. (Kathy Acker woke up.)

Oh yes, no, why, not to forget: that has always been one of the essential elements of it. [The piano of 'Cendre' comes in...] Someone wrote about her: So how do we speak, and say something bold and new and weird, without presuming to summon our dead ontological density? [She] does it through what she calls piracy, which is another way of saying movement. Who knows what will come after the pirate? The synthetic hormone, the silicon crystal, the algorithm, falling in love with how someone dances on Fortnite. Any space contains the architectures of whatever was there before and was built on or around the older stuff. Well, this is not so well put, and so it falls to me. Well: it's to take, and to give, and to follow — together. The way to follow together is Love. But this is already another (the same) story. Which also falls to me.

Not only it falls to me, it employs me entirely.

(But now Ursula K. Le Guin wakes up; her voice penetrates all the wood in the saloon:) The voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through [infra] our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being [other ways of being], and even imagine real grounds for hope: writers who can remember freedom: [...] realists of a larger reality. Realists of a larger reality.

In a dream last night, I was in the big-screen-room, a specimen of television saloon in my paternal grandparents' house, where there are big black square sofas; I was getting ready to sleep on one of them with my sister. Standing next to us, next to the sofa siding the big glass doors leading to the garden, a couple argued fiercely. Looking at them, as if in a zen debauchery, I started singing Joni: ""I was driving across the burning desert / When I spotted six jet planes / Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain / It was the hexagram of the heavens / It was the strings of my guitar / Amelia, it was just a false alarm."

Waking up, I enlarge myself: I have so many chairs in my saloon, n'even too comfortable, only enough for my spine to be on guard...: I finally grant that continuity is given, within me, to literature (conversation).