Too many capitals.

11/26/07

You think when you write: “I must write what I know”, and then you think of all the most immediate relevant objects that have crossed your path and you think: “Shall I write about them?” “No” is the answer, “Those things are too remote, too easy, too unrelated! I must write something extraordinary or else who would possibly care?!”

With clenched fists you now walk through life with your mind coursing all around you like a fog, lifting and picking and sifting though everything in which you come in contact. “Perhaps I can use these” You may think or: “Yes this may do nicely ha, ha, ha; I will conquer the world for certain!” You will continue to walk with fists clenched, and then unclenched and then clenched and unclenched again, grabbing the invisible with your hands and grabbing the actual and transforming it from the concrete thing into the invisible object that are… “I will have a mind full of ideas” you may think: “And with these ideas I will work, I will create that which has never existed, and with these creations I may rule and conquer, I will stand atop my own ideas like a man on top of a mountain, human foot atop cold wet stone. This will be my reality…” You will think. And with this thought your mind will drift far, far away into an unlit room that exists only within the deepest recesses of your mind and blindly grabbing and feeling you will sit and wonder and sit and create and imagine all of the wonderful things that you can make, and all of the beauty that will shine in your eyes and all of the “whatever” that will swirl all around you and every one and everything, and try as you might to distinguish the real from the unreal you will struggle and it will all start to feel the same and you can imagine light and you can imagine darkness and you can feel rain though it is as dry as bone and you can hear music though there are no speakers or microphones and then there are white circles every where and you shout out holding the thumb you have just crushed with a hammer trying to hang pictures on the wall, and shouting out again you imagine somewhere down that long dusty distant road of the day when you can finally afford…a lamp.

“I can’t see a goddamned thing in here!”

You shout now angry with fists clenched (and then unclenched and then clenched and unclenched), thinking and dreaming of another day when thumbs aren’t so sore and crushed and dark rooms aren’t so dark and dusty and you think and walk and think and walk and then sit and wonder and sit and think and sit and laugh then you write something down and close the book in which it was written because you have some where else to be, and then you walk again completely uncertain but determined in every way to get where your going in the exact time allotted though it is cold and rainy and your hunched over and wet, and your glasses have cracked and there are too many cars in the street and they are moving much too fast but you know you can get there because you’ve been there before and you know there can be no doubt because you think: “I can see it” and you know you can because you can and you know it will always be there because it has always been there and you say those words aloud because you can and the words form in front of your eyes and then you think about the words and you think about the letters and then you scramble them and unscramble them and the words have not changed and you know it’s there and that it will be there and you cannot miss that which has always existed. You may just have to find it: “I may just have to find it” you think, and you think: “I know that I can see it because I can”. You say the words and you can see the words and you can hear the words, and it has and it will always be there because you know and because you believe and there is no longer any doubt or mystery: Because you can, because you care, because: “I can see it”.

Because I can see, because you can see, because you can…

“See.”

I wrote it down.