Tudo era branco e frio. O sol já se via a espraiar e os cardos secos que rodeavam a cama mordiam-lhe os lados. Decidiu elevar se a custo.
11
Foi nessa noite em luar quente que apareceu esse anão amigo de que se fala tão bem antes de realmente se saber em que acredita.
- não ponhas as fezes ali! Não venhas para aqui desgovernar o comer. Já há trabalho que chegue para um!
De todos os arrepios que vieram ao fim de uma jornada o anão parecia sorrir-se por cada nova revelação. E daí? É um anão. Tem patas pila e desejos como os homens. Porra é um homem que fode gajas como os outros. Aí parou. A barra de vidro acabada de fazer já não fervia e pôde pela primeira vez encarar o moço velho que nem mirava para si. Ali estava e pouco mais. - hei queres agua?
Sem resposta
10
A partir daqui de todas as coisas sorumbáticas que Meta poderia contemplar a maior era a descrição do mundo perante a solução prenhe que era a sua cor encefalizada. De saco às costas percorreu as encostas longas e viu bem as baleias ao longe em formas paralelas de sinuosa semelhança. Eram duas e gordas que isto
se verifica.
O caminho tinha potencial de carraça e a simpatia e educação essas, meta pôs no lixo. Lembrava-se bem de amar cães para lá de deus. De ter a abertura de ver o movimento longo de uma narrativa simples de conteúdo gordo.
A seu lado os cães da sua infância percorreram o seu desejo de se cingir ao que estava já concebido no seu ser.
Caminhou para o interior e imaginou a grande levada que traria a terra ao paroxismo do movimento das mentes. Serra tornada barco. Rio tornado precipício. Abriu o saco e percorreu o que tinha trazido com os olhos. Segurou na sua corda simbólica e no se apetrecho de vidreira. Seria hoje que se enviaria ao mundo enfezado da sua fé reencontrada. Não tinha pincéis mas tinha dia mãos e a sua actividade.
Deu um nó na oliveira colocada na borda do seu lugar. Forma de precipício e marimbada pelo vento tocou no troco oco e aí sobreviveu a espaços contemplando o dia de amanhã enquanto comia erva transformada em cinza pelo processo escaldante de fazer uma barra de vidro.
9
There are in Meta's mind two important things. The baggage which he carries is not light. It is after all a mixture of collected fragments which he has always been willing to connect like dots in a plot. These are his own constructions of wool threads. Like he could see no more a way of being than to place a fragment in a place and resolve his own puzzle in the most natural fashion. Laurie sees him not so often and then rarely in his place. When she does though she trips on things that don't mean much.
- Meta!
She knows nothing of the surroundings and she does not try to make any sense of it. She continues through with her own speed. There is nothing like one's own speed.
Meta knows that in his baggage there are no more than two important things. One being an olive tree which he finds at the top of a cliff. This cliff is important because it allows him to fly. Well, he ties himself to the olive tree and makes his way down. Very very slowly. The other thing he needs is the rope...
- Alright Laurie, I'm off. The eggs were lovely... the coffee was... well it was really nice. So ah, I don't really have much else to say. Are you doing anything good for the weekend?
- Shed my skin... if all goes well I'll be done by Sunday and then I might just watch movies at home.
- Oh, ok.
- will you write or something?
- I've written most of it to be honest. Shall I just send you the manuscript? I don't really think it will deviate much from that...
- Come on Meta. This is sort of sudden. Can you not tell me how you are? But yeah, send me the manuscript. It will be a good way to keep you by, but not enough. I reckon you should call... or write. I might come meet you when I get the headspace from things...
- Ok ok. I'll do my best.
- Meta!
She knows nothing of the surroundings and she does not try to make any sense of it. She continues through with her own speed. There is nothing like one's own speed.
Meta knows that in his baggage there are no more than two important things. One being an olive tree which he finds at the top of a cliff. This cliff is important because it allows him to fly. Well, he ties himself to the olive tree and makes his way down. Very very slowly. The other thing he needs is the rope...
- Alright Laurie, I'm off. The eggs were lovely... the coffee was... well it was really nice. So ah, I don't really have much else to say. Are you doing anything good for the weekend?
- Shed my skin... if all goes well I'll be done by Sunday and then I might just watch movies at home.
- Oh, ok.
- will you write or something?
- I've written most of it to be honest. Shall I just send you the manuscript? I don't really think it will deviate much from that...
- Come on Meta. This is sort of sudden. Can you not tell me how you are? But yeah, send me the manuscript. It will be a good way to keep you by, but not enough. I reckon you should call... or write. I might come meet you when I get the headspace from things...
- Ok ok. I'll do my best.
8
Meta knows Laurie. Laurie sells eggs. Meta hates planning. That's why he never travels. He used to. That's how he got here. Meta has a pet. It's made of GLASS. It's called Sandy. It's a rabbit. Meta collects more than just glass things. Meta also collects wires and wollen strings. In fact any kind of string. That's how he came across Laurie.
Laurie is Meta's friend. He's come to visit. He says:
- I'm about to set off.
- Where are you going to? Anywhere exciting? I didn't know you'd be travelling. Never known you to! So where is it?
a silence crept up the place like a good old fart. Meta was not so fast lipped as dearest Laurie.
- Well. I'm pretty sure it's due south. I mean it's a descending destiny. I mean I had a vision. I say vision, but it was more like a dream, well, not really a dream... Ok... it's more like a picture in my mind you know? I know there's a highway close by. And it's near where I come from. And there is a gorge. With different levels. A river and a little beach where I settle at last. It could also be an abandoned mine, but that might drip too much.
Laurie is Meta's friend. He's come to visit. He says:
- I'm about to set off.
- Where are you going to? Anywhere exciting? I didn't know you'd be travelling. Never known you to! So where is it?
a silence crept up the place like a good old fart. Meta was not so fast lipped as dearest Laurie.
- Well. I'm pretty sure it's due south. I mean it's a descending destiny. I mean I had a vision. I say vision, but it was more like a dream, well, not really a dream... Ok... it's more like a picture in my mind you know? I know there's a highway close by. And it's near where I come from. And there is a gorge. With different levels. A river and a little beach where I settle at last. It could also be an abandoned mine, but that might drip too much.
7
The first question would be why write? The second would be why write right? The third would be, well, why write the question?
Meta is a man. Ageless it seems. Dreams of dreaming. Dies for a good dream. Sees himself naked. Watches himself and yet finds himself at best collapsed, sacrosanct loosing the meaning of his words. This happens mostly in his apartment. Right the way down the corridor. He sees that all is plain. Up. Pulleys himself uP. Does it all on his own. Between brunch and dinner never. Mostly he gets wicked in the dark. There is an element of creation. But he doesn't seem to find in it nothing much more than existence. That's how he got to want to die in the first place.
6
The plan was simple, The plan was to die. Die sure and why not? It's about the only thing you can hope for when you live, surely...
And that was that. And maybe he would end up living. A bit. He would try at least. He wasn't really an expert. Not that you'd have to be one. Not many of us are. He had gone, stooped stopped, embroidered around enough. Spent alchemicalizing his knots and his dirts, could hardly move, out of pain and bits, largely made of GLASS. HUng Everywhere. Like his own made sculpture.
You see the shapes are everything and they come from really the most simple things at heart.
5
He waited for a while at the bus stop. He saw the girl from before approaching and he hid his face under his scarf. Didn't want to be seen. He hoped on and got to the upper deck.
Strange how occurrences occur. It all started brightly. A mish mash of words, something truly, very innocent. A not necessarily masterful depiction of pretty much not much, maybe less than much. Speaking of which, much more could and maybe should be told. That on high glass was heaven. That on low it creaked, reeked, surely steamed! How doubtful really. I mean why didn't he get the ticket on time. And here he was on a bus. Looking through the window and finding a reflection. That shows him himself. Him and the girl. The girl that seems to chase him. Why would he care indeed! To have held and beheld were the findings of true composure. But to simply lay. Like mournful, happy, abandoned. Like a true puppet. But a serious one. One that knows he's a puppet but says why not. It wouldn't all have been like this always. The girl was near him and so on. But the reflection... It's glass right?! There was no more to say. His head nodded and so what. He got up and knocked on the side window turning around to her.
-Go on, have me!!
I guess any boyfriend had to say something.
- I wasn't talking to you milkshake!!
And there it was. Needless to describe the passionate affair. So there was blood! And why not really. Man are men. In groups. To make history or story who cares. Is there really someone to matter. He felt the ache of simple sorrow harder. Meta had gone foraging and found a match. A match of ignoramanamia.
Ok. Description. He got home. Cleaned his mouth. Spat a bit. Cursed a bit. Washed his face.
That was about it.
He dangled the multi chandelier sculpture he had made and he crept into nothing. Sat. Shat. Ate a bit.
Strange how occurrences occur. It all started brightly. A mish mash of words, something truly, very innocent. A not necessarily masterful depiction of pretty much not much, maybe less than much. Speaking of which, much more could and maybe should be told. That on high glass was heaven. That on low it creaked, reeked, surely steamed! How doubtful really. I mean why didn't he get the ticket on time. And here he was on a bus. Looking through the window and finding a reflection. That shows him himself. Him and the girl. The girl that seems to chase him. Why would he care indeed! To have held and beheld were the findings of true composure. But to simply lay. Like mournful, happy, abandoned. Like a true puppet. But a serious one. One that knows he's a puppet but says why not. It wouldn't all have been like this always. The girl was near him and so on. But the reflection... It's glass right?! There was no more to say. His head nodded and so what. He got up and knocked on the side window turning around to her.
-Go on, have me!!
I guess any boyfriend had to say something.
- I wasn't talking to you milkshake!!
And there it was. Needless to describe the passionate affair. So there was blood! And why not really. Man are men. In groups. To make history or story who cares. Is there really someone to matter. He felt the ache of simple sorrow harder. Meta had gone foraging and found a match. A match of ignoramanamia.
Ok. Description. He got home. Cleaned his mouth. Spat a bit. Cursed a bit. Washed his face.
That was about it.
He dangled the multi chandelier sculpture he had made and he crept into nothing. Sat. Shat. Ate a bit.
4
The sound of the concert continued. Above the parapets he recognized it like a cold breeze. Sound given temperature properties. As if some cloud of pure cold. Here suddenly he let his mind wander. The girl had lost her bearings slightly. She was stupored. She finally lift her eyelids and asked: "Where is my man?!". Don't know darling was the answer. Where is her man? Man of the plan would be good Meta. A merciless rewriter, constantly updating, improving, adding, rethinking, restrategising, just to make sure that everything is thought through. The incomplacencies are not necessarily warranted dire, but nevertheless improvement is always possible. Your man my darling could just as well possibly be right here. Nevertheless it's probably time to go. Yes definitely time to go.
- Who the fuck are you?!
- No one miss...
Where was I? Well, yes. Ice. Trumpet. Glass. Ring. Diamonds are like glass! Like a megaglass. Hyperglass. He made a turn for the cemetery. He would go through there. And so it was. He was walking again. The plan... so the plan's simple. Get the bus home.
- Who the fuck are you?!
- No one miss...
Where was I? Well, yes. Ice. Trumpet. Glass. Ring. Diamonds are like glass! Like a megaglass. Hyperglass. He made a turn for the cemetery. He would go through there. And so it was. He was walking again. The plan... so the plan's simple. Get the bus home.
3
And sure, he had heard some of it, from afar. Brought by the wind. Sound mixed with labour, sweat and lager. He could see a pub on the other side of the street. Would have gone in if it wasn't for the curiosity of finding out what ice sounds like. Meta would have thought it to sound cold in fact. Like a horn, only clearer and more distinct. He had sat down by now and was expecting rain at any time. The moon was high above him allowing peripheral vision. A tarty girl strolled past shoeless in diminutive clothes.
- Excuse me, what's the best kinda ring you ever got?
- Never did get one darling....
- Excuse me, what's the best kinda ring you ever got?
- Never did get one darling....
2
No one can quiet down enlightened eyes! OK, then. I won't make the tooth pick novel. That most needed of works because now I have image, soundtrack and all. And why not? There is no reason to doubt. The character is dying anyway and all that he is, he is so in condition. Not much to tell there. He is what, well, 46? Maybe 56, or thereabouts? He is stocky. Round ended. Good chest, better legs. He knows he's to die. Well. We all know. He lives. Alone yes. He likes GLASS. Because it doesn't eat. He likes chandeliers. Or at least, what makes them. He is first seen on... where was he seen? Some say London, some go as far as Clevedon, but only on mushy days. In any case he has a home. His name is Meta. He is normal. We are all normal to some degree. He lives in a normal dimension too. He gets visits like everyone. Sometimes even from himself. He catalyses in silent silence. He waits. He needs to. He has fingers that shape the air. Repeatedly. He has a [plan]. He has many other plans but he has one that is his favourite. He wishes it, but mostly he wishes it not to have had to happen. It's just. I mean. It's just so like this. He has a few instruments. Mostly he became annoyed that he missed the ice horn concert. He wanted to see that. But it was full. Fully booked that is. He had gone near in any case.
1
I had caught flamenca. I called it that but it was just a stringing of words. Wouldn’t say Beckett had made me do it. I mean I was better than that. Was not even that I was for an emulation. That wasn’t it either. I guess it would be more that of having this thought of words, that get carried dense as GLASS, but compressed in beads and then laid out like whatever makes a necklace look finished. Sometimes it would come. Sometimes not. But there was the mystery, or indeed the interest (most mysteries have some sort of interest, for that matter most interests have some sort of mystery!). I guess it’s the jolly old gush of sound and matter, stream like, yet fortified. And in this repentance with a pen, one would find the joy of reading. This would go well beyond the point, that friend of the position. As far as the self belief, ashore of the most humble humanity. This would then be the joy. Or pain. Reflective. Decisive of decision, of that loose balance that can be beset of a so called destination. It was here that the loose end kept loose. That the meaning came true, that the light truly lit. Forceps, or caesarian. Neither! Or was it? I had soon come to the conclusion that it was better to go on than not. Don’t care for the machinery involved. The objective would be the birth. Whether surgically manifested or not! I crudely say, feel and think. I crudely instigate and ride feeling. I truly space my thoughts, and mostly I stopped rushing them out in fear of not having them. And this would be the true point. Best found than not, best found before in any case. For this would then be Becketian. “That the wise… don’t….” What was that passage about the wise? The admission, the truth, the difference is the control, but also the greater points. Point of action, point of prolonged deed. So it would be the that the writer would not be the son of the preacher and that the monologue would not be about literates. Truly control would be the difference. But this control wasn’t so much that of the item found, ran in china ink from precise patterns. But the control of course. to run a course. To keep to the size of a river. To detail a tale of a way so as to return to the beginning. You would have truly lost me soon. If only not by the saying naying to be found or not. This would be your “passetemps”. Collect, Letter, Word, Song. Collect the word, mix it, caress it, package it. I was no more rash of conclusion. Conclusion means ending and there hasn’t been a point. Introduction like things have made me think. More than the fear of not, I have found the fear of not not. From the clear sharpness of nay I have felt the fear. The fear of fearing. The fear of staying feared. Here I would imagine a great escape. Like or with a lightness granted by the outdoors. As if blossomed from first sketchings. Found in essential observation. It could be a tree, a star, a hill. Mostly a hill, a corner. Anything with many things. Not an object no. More a like a trough. Something of life and death and crackelure… I was once seen in this. Clasping, holding, penetrating, protruding. In solo for solo. I above all, for me, for all. One does these things. One is never right. One is more like. I would find, fool found, trigger find, assume find. For find is no find when found is wanted. When found is precluded, designed, instigated. I would not cease now, nor there. Search find keep/ Search found keep. Till came the sleep. Till came the oxygen. Till came the industry. Hard work this. Hard tale to tell. No episodes there. Not much to tell at all. Maybe the story is bare there. bare anger. bear anger. This would make me wish to say something then. Maybe find to be explained. Only to discharge. Construct and keep an illusion. This would then be the sensiberation. I would have a character, and a story to tell and a series of events. I would tell these in order and find them likewise constructed in detail. But maybe I would be allowed a story. But why a story? For we needed grave words! Seriousness! And enlightened eyes!
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