I tell Caitlin that I “have to channel for a minute,” and begin to write, with a gathering of strange Blakean energies gather forces to launch front he tip of my tongue through my fingers and I see nothing else but what I am thinking to write, that certainly will be come a most splendid misfire, or the touchstone to some other idea, that I believe it could humble me, or even alienate me, but none the less it stays sincere and moves through the channels of the heart, there I confess through my dictate the winding and churning of an idea seeded by emotion and watered by innovation, there can be nothing else as intermediary, it can only be encouraged like wet desire and the prodding of a child through the doorway into the world…
Writing becomes an act in itself, not the night or its stars, or the sea and its waves, but the page and its words rolling back ever-certain, ever-urged toward its own shore, breaking at frothy import the intention of its well-aimed volley.
Or it misfires.
But in accidents there lies the most important discoveries. Here in the world I cocoon myself within, I harness the silken thread of divine thoughts invincible.
The result is a page broken and tumbled, like a fallen statue that once held its subject to a loftier aim, but now, reduced to rubble, foiled, only to resurrect
will you be there for me
will you be there