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!
