2001-12-19 - 11:53 a.m.

My left hand is leering at my right as I compose. I emerge from ignominy to the sound of a calling. The demand for a display. A musical impromptu. I sigh because these are notes to a music that cannot be sung. I despair because to call this 'music' implies ownership and possession. A musical impromptu. O for the proximity of another set of hands! These notes are mere interludes; an escapist trapeze act. They are displays. Rudimentary and guile-less. But just as surely as Herodotus is the father of history (were I awake at nights in fear of some random act of defenestration I should say HIStory, or hisstory, in recognition of the unkempt multitude who will raise hands in complaint) so I will continue with my show.

I am an alto, merely. Meekly. Direct me to a promontory, that I might be nearer to the sea, and I shan't complain any longer. 'Fair is foul and foul is fair'. O let me be at peace, if I cannot love and be loved. Let me once more come to terms with that bitter legume, equivocation.

I have been gifted with a discursive nature, and yet am perenially absent of suitable dining companions.

A promenade of my thoughts would, of results, yield much that is prolix - thinking charitably, I should say disparate - still, I cannot even construe the words necessary for a preface. A prolegomena.

I write because I can think.

I think in preparation for writing.

That is inexact, but if I should sketch a diagram of this solipsism you'd understand.

_________________

I sketch a line. My paramour for this day.

Nyet - niente - rien.

My thoughts are any number of the remnants of negative parlance - unspeakably undesirable. And, what is worse, they have a lien upon me the seat of which is too too evident. Question: why in no time at all am I doing the bidding of another and forgetting - why is it that memory is silent? troilus contra Somnus contra troilus contra tutti? But it must needs be so.

This is what allows me to sleep when but for all otherwise I should tear out the walls with my very-own au-courant hara-kiri. A wall. An inanimate object to be the recipient of my own senseless embezzlement. I am stealing. We all are. Days hence it may once more be Keats or Beaumarchais. Now it is my very own thin-lisped anger. A Christmas non sequitur, if ever there was one.

Again - it is, as always, that unfailing arpeggio of self-inflicted thoughts:

Who?, what?, where?, when?, why?, how?; concluded with until?

I am an idler, to be true, and this be the crux of the conundrum: despite all, the mind is faithfully resplendent.

I'm afraid of seeming unseemly, perhaps. Eternally carping, never the carpe-nter. I am insouciant enough for a pun. It is only once, this peculiar disquisitive is one time. Where is the strain in solitary occasions? That is why, in my dreams, I would meet her. She is my muse, to be twirled and embraced for a moment. I cannot expect any more.

It always has been 'should', and I have not acted. I doubt of my own intelligence. I doubt of human relevance. I resolve that since we are all equally human, we are equally responsible for earthly fuddle.

I am the alchemist. The sneering inventor of a moment's idiosyncracies

(inconsistencies, morelike)

troilus

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