What would you do for a book of “nothing”? Most would do just that, nothing. And I may do nothing, too, but certainly I would be doing something by merely thinking about doing that nothing. “Nothing” is not necessarily a blank space. Some people find dirt to be highly unimportant in their daily lives, but when one thinks more about that dirt, one realizes that it is vastly important. The term “nothing” is always “something.” Before one can think of nothing, one has to know the difference between nothing and something, and that’s a simple formula, really, because ‘something’ can be anything, whether it is an ‘act’, a ‘thought’, an ‘object’, &c. What is more intimate within the Nothing’s nucleus? Nothing can be easily ignored, and it (whatever it may be) shouldn’t be ignored, because like shadows, there is always a light somewhere to create that shadow, and with a Nothing, there will always be a Something, and vice-versa. We cannot go through life with our eyes opened and never visually see “nothing.” It’s also quite impossible to think of “nothing,” too. One will think of the word, but with words are images, and a Nothing will always be linked to a Something. Something that is blank may appear to be nothing, but within that blank there is a Something in which that Nothing is canvas’d upon. It’s similar to when you call someone and you may ask them, “what are you doing?” and they respond with “nothing.”
Shoveling down Golden Grahams, why am I not a sentence-seeker? I write letters, as if by memory, with memories, to those that are perhaps overly-satisfied with detail. Detail, like kitchen remnants left after moving, accidental crumb-droppings on Granny's table, her eyes check, same continuum, bloquees of loopy speech; reiterations. What else but the sunlight-screech in summertime, peach-orange light, prolonged, falling on the flower-pot full of light green Hedera helix in an eternal instance, thick as the beard of Ives, could strike a chord with cordial reminders of a future love? Air released, like in a flattening tire. I often sigh when I wake in the morning, but not out of hardships or struggles or pains, but something of tenderness, often humorous, a “know,” a satisfaction, of what is to come. A Brahms allegretto in the evening. Flip-flops are still on my feet, like turf, rough terrain ruining the knees of athletes, I crawl around this place like a caterpillar. Scribbling verse. Sounds of string quartets. Sounds of what will be.
Saturday morning wake, where is vacation, other than cold sheets, daydreaming all night, pleasant smiles, I love old folks. I love picnics but only when there are ants present. I feed them, they are happy, makes me happy, happier. There is a beach on the moon. I hit my head on the wall while walking down the steps today. Felt like a statue for a moment. Elagabalus The Horrible-headsplit for a minute, it did not last long, though. As delicate as pushing a baby carriage, I want to go far away, never wagering, bewildered, unsheltered. I saw your face in my mirror. My coffee cup is empty. I have hung a grape-vine on the edge of the cup. I had beanie-weanies today for the first time in at least a decade-plus. How does one that is unable to read or write music explain to musicians how the music sounds in one’s head? By humming it? Making sounds with one's tongue and lips and mouth where certain parts would be within the piece? There is an entire symphony in my head, wanting release, and I can only ponder if I have just subconsciously re-created---like a cut-up---pieces of music (over very long periods of time) and re-arranged them, or is this something completely foreign, or perhaps unique?
Shoveling down Golden Grahams, why am I not a sentence-seeker? I write letters, as if by memory, with memories, to those that are perhaps overly-satisfied with detail. Detail, like kitchen remnants left after moving, accidental crumb-droppings on Granny's table, her eyes check, same continuum, bloquees of loopy speech; reiterations. What else but the sunlight-screech in summertime, peach-orange light, prolonged, falling on the flower-pot full of light green Hedera helix in an eternal instance, thick as the beard of Ives, could strike a chord with cordial reminders of a future love? Air released, like in a flattening tire. I often sigh when I wake in the morning, but not out of hardships or struggles or pains, but something of tenderness, often humorous, a “know,” a satisfaction, of what is to come. A Brahms allegretto in the evening. Flip-flops are still on my feet, like turf, rough terrain ruining the knees of athletes, I crawl around this place like a caterpillar. Scribbling verse. Sounds of string quartets. Sounds of what will be.
Saturday morning wake, where is vacation, other than cold sheets, daydreaming all night, pleasant smiles, I love old folks. I love picnics but only when there are ants present. I feed them, they are happy, makes me happy, happier. There is a beach on the moon. I hit my head on the wall while walking down the steps today. Felt like a statue for a moment. Elagabalus The Horrible-headsplit for a minute, it did not last long, though. As delicate as pushing a baby carriage, I want to go far away, never wagering, bewildered, unsheltered. I saw your face in my mirror. My coffee cup is empty. I have hung a grape-vine on the edge of the cup. I had beanie-weanies today for the first time in at least a decade-plus. How does one that is unable to read or write music explain to musicians how the music sounds in one’s head? By humming it? Making sounds with one's tongue and lips and mouth where certain parts would be within the piece? There is an entire symphony in my head, wanting release, and I can only ponder if I have just subconsciously re-created---like a cut-up---pieces of music (over very long periods of time) and re-arranged them, or is this something completely foreign, or perhaps unique?
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