I have, perhaps via metaphysical principles, been reduced to a man of work, with little effort in other directions and little passion, save that which expresses itself in these occasional ramblings — not entirely directionless, though direction is not always sure. Passion, in strange new form, stirs, and has not reconciled itself with my stale rationality, which often returns to instincts of a cruder sort. First, perhaps, self-preservation, although this also wanes with time as each moment appears empty without the sun, a procession of insects to their hive of choice, and I also with them, with a camera, amazed at the drops of honey and intoxicated dance of the drones. This no antique drum, yet every morning the same rhythm compels the dancers — I can find no place where it does not haunt me.
I awake suddenly, sweating, with great passion. I am lonely but I barely notice it, and my mind empty strikes against almost empty chords, no longer strung together, but each note hanging from an almost invisible glistening thread, promising almost something, and yet, the breeze comes and I roll over as their own procession, almost emerging, appears in no particular order, each emotion presenting itself in some intensity, then disappearing.
Anger is easiest to hold to. At least one breathes deep for a moment — though the next it is gone — and nothing yields to ever-present hollowness like the shaking fist, worse when an act of pure mind, not body, never unclenchable.
So many enemies parade along this ground, poking, reminding me of my faith, this eros of the old dispensation, no longer scattered or scatteredable. I was there, I must remind you, at Konigsplatz. I marched under the pink banner. I rejoiced in the moment to come.
That was a rhythm to remember, casting about with the men, fishing for ancient songs and finding only the willing and the brave and the present. What a song, memory, hope, farce, all rolled up in one. And all we can remember is that it was not us who were there — it was not our blood, but someone else’s veins, and we have found, today, numbers more willing.
You do not understand me? So man walks, in between understanding, not content with the attempt or the fish. All the sages of yore were fisherman, understanding the cosmos with their hook dangling in the water and a pull on the line. A strange joy, we have learned to share it with each living creature, though still we expect some reprobation.
Or perhaps remonstrance, after all, there must be a trial, here, now, at some point in the future, continuing, and each side must present. I will start with a photo, then argue that I am no different, hoping by such means to commute my sentence.
Stand still. Freeze. Rejoice. There is nothing to protest. There is simply the job and the hospital and some poor man by the side of the road in between. This is the melody, and it ends with the burst of shotgun. First me, then you.
You will do the whimpering.
